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PILGRIMAGE 


B ACKWATE  R 


PILGRIMAGE 


BACKWATER 


BY 

DOROTHY     M.     RICHARDSON 


NEW  YORK;  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF  1917 

--  1-  Ci  ^J    i    <i 


TO 

J.  A.  H. 


PRINTED   IN   GREAT   BRITAIN   BY 
WM.    BRENBON   AND  SON,    LTD.,   PLYMOUTH,   ENGLAND 


^0  b5 


n 


TO 

J.  A.  H. 


}         BACKWATER 


CHAPTER    I 

I 

A  SWARTHY  turbaned  face  shone  at  Miriam 

;^  xjL  from  a  tapestry  screen  standing  between  her 

^>  and  the  ferns  rising  from  a  basket  framework  in  the 

bow  of  the  window.    Consulting  it  at  intervals  as 

the  afternoon  wore  on,  she  found  that  it  made 

very  light  of  the  quiet  propositions  that  were 

;;i  being  elaborated  within  hearing  of  her  inattentive 

ears.    Looking  beyond  it  she  could  catch  glimpses 

between  the  crowded  fernery,  when  a  tram  was 

not  jingling  by,  of  a  close-set  palisade  just  across 

J  the  roadway  and  beyond  the  palisade  of  a  green 

^  level  ending  at  a  row  of  Spanish  poplars.    The 

trams  seemed  very  near  and  noisy.    Whr^  they 

passed  by  the  window,  the  speakers  had  to  raise 

their  voices.    Otherwise  the  little  drawing-room 

was   very    quiet,    with    a    strange    old-fashioned 

quietness.     It  was   full  of  old   things,  like  the 


2  BACKWATER 

Gobelin  screen,  and  old  thoughts  Hke  the  thoughts 
of  the  ladies  who  were  sitting  and  talking  there. 
She  and  her  mother  had  seemed  quite  modern, 
fussy,  worldly  people  when  they  had  first  come 
into  the  room.  From  the  moment  the  three 
ladies  had  come  in  and  begun  talking  to  her 
mother,  the  things  in  the  room,  and  the  view  of 
the  distant  row  of  poplars  had  grown  more  and 
more  peaceful,  and  now  at  the  end  of  an  hour  she 
felt  that  she,  and  to  some  extent  Mrs.  Henderson 
too,  belonged  to  the  old-world  room  with  its 
quiet  green  outlook  shut  in  by  the  poplars.  Only 
the  trams  were  disturbing.  They  came  busily  by, 
with  their  strange  jingle- jingle,  plock-plock,  and 
made  her  inattentive.  Why  were  there  so  many 
people  coming  by  in  trams  ?  Where  were  they 
going  ?  Why  were  all  the  trams  painted  that 
hard,  dingy  blue  ? 

The  sisters  talked  quietly,  outlining  their  needs 
in  smooth  gentle  voices,  in  small  broken  phrases, 
frequently  interrupting  and  correcting  each  other. 
Miriam  heard  dreamily  that  they  wanted  help 
with  the  lower  school,  the  children  from  six  to 
eight  years  of  age,  in  the  mornings  and  afternoons, 
and  in  the  evenings  a  general  superintendence  of 
the  four  boarders.    They  kept  on  saying  that  the 


BACKWATER  3 

work  was  very  easy  and  simple  ;  there  were  no 
naughty  girls — hardly  a  single  naughty  girl — in 
the  school ;  there  should  be  no  difficult  superin- 
tendence, no  exercise  of  authority  would  be 
required. 

By  the  time  they  had  reached  the  statement  of 
these  modifications  Miriam  felt  that  she  knew 
them  quite  well.  The  shortest,  who  did  most 
of  the  talking  and  who  had  twinkling  eyes  and 
crooked  pince-nez  and  soft  reddish  cheeks  and  a 
Httle  red-tipped  nose,  and  whose  small  coil  of 
sheeny  grey  hair  was  pinned  askew  on  the  top  of 
her  head — stray  loops  standing  out  at  curious 
angles — was  Miss  Jenny,  the  middle  one.  The 
very  tall  one  sitting  opposite  her,  with  a  deHcate 
wrinkled  creamy  face  and  coal-black  eyes  and  a 
peak  of  ringletted  smooth  coal-black  hair,  was 
the  eldest.  Miss  Deborah.  The  other  sister,  much 
younger,  with  neat  smooth  green-grey  hair  and  a 
long  sad  greyish  face  and  faded  eyes,  was  Miss 
Haddie.  They  were  all  three  dressed  in  thin 
fine  black  material  and  had  tiny  hands  and  little 
softly  moving  feet.  What  did  they  think  of  the 
trams  ? 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  manage  it,  chickie  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Henderson  suddenly. 


4  BACKWATER 

"  I  think  I  could." 

"  No  doubt,  my  dear,  oh,  no  doubt,"  said  Miss 
Jenny  with  a  little  sound  of  laughter  as  she 
tapped  her  knee  with  the  pince-nez  she  had 
plucked  from  their  rakish  perch  on  the  reddened 
bridge  of  her  nose. 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  teach  Scripture." 

An  outbreak  of  incoherent  little  sounds  and 
statements  from  all  three  taught  her  that  Miss 
Deborah  took  the  Bible  classes  of  the  whole 
school. 

"  How  old  is  Miriam  ?  " 

"  Just  eighteen.  She  has  put  up  her  hair  to- 
day." 

"  Oh,  poor  child,  she  need  not  have  done  that." 

"  She  is  a  born  teacher.  She  used  to  hold  little 
classes  amongst  her  schoolfellows  when  she  was 
only  eight  years  old." 

Miriam  turned  sharply  to  her  mother.  She 
was  sitting  with  her  tired  look — bright  eyes, 
and  moist  flushed  face.  How  had  she  heard  about 
the  little  classes  ?  Had  there  been  little  classes  ? 
She  could  not  remember  them. 

"  She  speaks  French  like  a  Parisienne." 

That  was  that  silly  remark  made  by  the  woman 
in  the  train  coming  home  from  Hanover, 


BACKWATER  5 

Eh — we  thought — it   was   in   Germany  she 


was- 


"  Yes,  but  I  learned  more  French." 

The  sisters  smiled  provisionally. 

"  She  shared  a  room  with  the  mademoiselle." 

"  Oh — er — hee — ^hay — perhaps  she  might  speak 
French  with  the  gels." 

"  Oh  no,  I  couldn't  speak.''^ 

There  was  a  tender  little  laugh. 

"  I  don't  know  French  conversation." 

"  Well,  well." 

The  sisters  brought  the  discussion  to  an  end 
by  offering  twenty  pounds  a  year  in  return  for 
Miriam's  services,  and  naming  the  date  of  the 
beginning  of  the  autumn  term. 

2 

On  the  way  to  the  front  door  they  all  looked 
into  the  principal  schoolroom.  Miriam  saw 
a  long  wide  dining-room  table  covered  with 
brown  American  cloth.  Shelves  neatly  crowded 
with  books  lined  one  wall  from  floor  to  ceiling. 
Opposite  them  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  was  a 
heavy  grey  marble  mantelpiece,  on  which  stood 
a  heavy  green  marble  clock  frame.  At  its  centre 
a  gold-faced  clock  ticked  softly.     Opposite  the 


6  BACKWATER 

windows  were  two  shallow  alcoves.  In  one 
stood  a  shrouded  blackboard  on  an  easel.  The 
other  held  a  piano  with  a  high  slender  back. 
The  prancing  outward  sweep  of  its  lid 
gave  Miriam  the  impression  of  an  afternoon 
dress. 

Miss  Deborah  drew  up  one  of  the  Venetian 
blinds.  They  all  crowded  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  on  a  small  garden  backed  by  trees  and 
lying  in  deep  shadow.  Beyond  were  more 
gardens  and  the  brownish  backs  of  small  old  brick 
houses.  Low  walls  separated  the  school  garden 
from  the  gardens  on  either  side. 

"  On  our  right  we  have  a  school  for  the  deaf 
and  dumb,"  said  Miss  Perne  ;  "  on  the  other  side 
is  a  family  of  Polish  Jews." 

3 

"  Mother,  why  did  you  pile  it  on  ?  " 
They  would  soon  be  down  at  the  corner  of 
Banbury  Park  where  the  tram  lines  ended  and 
the  Favorite  omnibuses  were  standing  in  the 
muddy  road  under  the  shadow  of  the  railway 
bridge.  Through  the  jingling  of  the  trams,  the 
dop-dop  of  the  hoofs  of  the  tram-horses  and  the 
noise  of  a  screaming  train  thundering  over  the 


BACKWATER  7 

bridge,  Miriam  made  her  voice  heard,  gazing 
through  the  spotted  veil  at  her  mother's  quivering 
features. 

"  They  might  have  made  me  do  all  sorts  of 
things  I  can't  do." 

Mrs.  Henderson's  voice,  breathless  with  walk- 
ing, made  a  little  sound  of  protest,  a  narrowed 
sound  that  told  Miriam  her  amusement  was  half 
annoyance.  The  dark,  noisy  bridge,  the  clatter 
and  rattle  and  the  mud  through  which  she  must 
plunge  to  an  omnibus  exasperated  her  to  the 
limit  of  her  endurance. 

"  I'd  got  the  post,"  she  said  angrily ;  "  you 
could  see  it  was  all  settled  and  then  you  went 
saying  those  things." 

Glancing  at  the  thin  shrouded  features  she  saw 
the  faint  lift  of  her  mother's  eyebrows  and  the 
firmly  speechless  mouth. 

"  Piccadilly — jump  on,  chickie." 

"  Let's  go  outside  now  it's  fine,"  said  Miriam 
crossly. 

Reaching  the  top  of  the  omnibus  she  hurried 
to  the  front  seat  on  the  left  hand  side. 

"  That's  a  very  windy  spot." 

"  No  it  isn't,  it's  quite  hot.  The  sun's  come 
out  now.     It's  rained  for  weeks.     It  won't  rain 


8  BACKWATER 

anymore.  It'll  be  hot.  You  won't  feel  the  wind. 
Will  you  have  the  corner,  mother  ?  " 

"  No,  chick,  you  sit  there." 

Miriam  screwed  herself  into  the  corner  seat, 
crossing  her  knees  and  grazing  the  tips  of  her 
shoes. 

"  This  is  the  only  place  on  the  top  of  a 
bus." 

Mrs.  Henderson  sat  down  at  her  side. 

"  I  always  make  Harriett  come  up  here  when  we 
go  up  to  the  West  End." 

"Of  course  it's  the  only  place,"  she  insisted 
in  response  to  her  mother's  amused  laugh.  "  No 
one  smoking  or  talking  in  front ;  you  can  see  out 
in  front  and  you  can  see  the  shops  if  there  are 
any,  and  you're  not  falling  off  all  the  time.  The 
bus  goes  on  the  left  side  of  the  road  and  tilts  to 
the  left." 

The  seats  were  filling  up  and  the  driver  ap- 
peared clambering  into  his  place. 

"  Didn't  you  ever  think  of  that  ?  Didn't  you 
ever  think  of  the  bus  tilting  that  way  ?  "  per- 
sisted Miriam  to  her  mother's  inattentive  face. 
"  Fancy  never  thinking  of  it.  It's  beastly  on 
the  other  side." 

The  omnibus  jerked  forward. 


BACKWATER  9 

"  You  ought  to  be  a  man,  Mimmy." 
"  I  liked  that  little  short  one,"  said  Miriam 
contentedly  as  they  came  from  under  the  roar  of 
the  bridge.  "  They  were  awfully  nice,  weren't 
they?  They  seemed  to  have  made  up  their 
mind  to  take  me  before  we  went.  ...  So  I 
think  they  like  us.  I  wonder  why  they  like  us. 
Didn't  you  think  they  liked  us  ?  Don't  you  think 
they  are  awfully  nice  ?  " 

"  I  do.    They  are  very  charming  ladies." 
"  Yes,  but  wasn't  it  awfully  rum  their  liking 
us  in  that  funny  way  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  they  should  not." 
"  Oh,  mother,  you  know  what  I  mean.    I  like 
them.      I'm   perfectly   sure   I   shall   like   them. 
D'you  remember  the  little  one  saying  all  girls 
ought  to  marry  ?    Why  did  she  say  that  ?  " 

"  They  are  dear  funny  little  O.M.'s,"  said  Mrs. 
Henderson  merrily.  She  was  sitting  with  her 
knees  crossed,  the  stuff  of  her  brown  canvas  dress 
was  dragged  across  them  into  an  ugly  fold  by 
the  weight  of  the  velvet  panel  at  the  side  of  the 
skirt.  She  looked  very  small  and  resourceless. 
And  there  were  the  Pernes  with  their  house  and 
their  school.  They  were  old  maids.  Of  course. 
What  then  ? 


lo  BACKWATER 

"  I  never  dreamed  of  getting  such  a  big 
salary." 

"  Oh,  my  chickie,  I'm  afraid  it  isn't  much." 

"  It  is,  mother,  it's  lovely." 

"  Oh— eh— virell." 

Miriam  turned  fiercely  to  the  roadway  on 
her  left. 

4 

She  had  missed  the  first  swing  forward  of  the 
vehicle  and  the  first  movements  of  the  compact 
street. 

They  were  going  ahead  now  at  a  steady  even 
trot.  Her  face  was  bathed  in  the  flow  of  the 
breeze. 

Little  rivulets  played  about  her  temples,  feel- 
ing their  way  through  her  hair.  She  drew  off 
her  gloves  without  turning  from  the  flowing 
roadway.  As  they  went  on  and  on  down  the 
long  road  Miriam  forgot  her  companion  in  the 
tranquil  sense  of  being  carried  securely  forward 
through  the  air  away  from  people  and  problems. 
Ahead  of  her,  at  the  end  of  the  long  drive,  lay 
three  sunlit  weeks,  bright  now  in  the  certainty 
of  the  shadow  that  lay  beyond  them  ..."  the 
junior  school  "  .  .  .  "  four  boarders." 


BACKWATER  fi 

5 

They  lumbered  at  last  round  a  corner  and  out 
into  a  wide  thoroughfare,  drawing  up  outside  a 
newly-built  public-house.  Above  it  rose  row 
upon  row  of  upper  windows  sunk  in  masses  of 
ornamental  terra-cotta-coloured  plaster.  Branch 
roads,  laid  with  tram  lines  led  off  in  every  direc- 
tion. Miriam's  eyes  followed  a  dull  blue  tram 
with  a  grubby  white-painted  seatless  roof  jing- 
ling busily  off  up  a  roadway  where  short  trees 
stood  all  the  way  along  in  the  small  dim  gardens 
of  little  grey  houses.  On  the  near  corner  of  the 
road  stood  a  wide  white  building,  bulging  into 
heavy  domes  against  the  sky.  Across  its  side, 
large  gilt  letters  standing  far  apart  spelled  out 
"  Banbury  Empire." 

"  It  must  be  a  theatre,"  she  told  herself 
in  astonishment.  "  That's  what  they  call  a 
suburban  theatre.  People  think  it  is  really  a 
theatre." 

The  little  shock  sent  her  mind  feeling  out 
along  the  road  they  had  just  left.  She  considered 
its  unbroken  length,  its  shops,  its  treelessness. 
The  wide  thoroughfare,  up  which  they  now  began 
to  rumble,  repeated  it  on  a  larger  scale.     The 


12  BACKWATER 

pavements  were  wide  causeways  reached  from  the 
roadway  by  stone  steps,  three  deep.  The  people 
passing  along  them  were  unlike  any  she  knew. 
There  were  no  ladies,  no  gentlemen,  no  girls  or 
young  men  such  as  she  knew.  They  were  all 
aHke.  They  were  .  .  .  She  could  find  no  word 
for  the  strange  impression  they  made.  It  coloured 
the  whole  of  the  district  through  which  they  had 
come.  It  was  part  of  the  new  world  to  which 
she  was  pledged  to  go  on  September  i8th.  It 
was  her  world  already ;  and  she  had  no  words 
for  it.  She  would  not  be  able  to  convey  it  to 
others.  She  felt  sure  her  mother  had  not  noticed 
it.  She  must  deal  with  it  alone.  To  try  to  speak 
about  it,  even  with  Eve,  would  sap  her  courage. 
It  was  her  secret.  A  strange  secret  for  all  her  life 
as  Hanover  had  been.  But  Hanover  was  beauti- 
ful, with  distant  country  through  the  saal  win- 
dows with  its  colours  misty  in  the  sunlight,  the 
beautiful,  happy  town  and  the  woodland  villages 
so  near.  This  new  secret  was  shabby,  ugly  and 
shabby.  The  half-perceived  something  persisted 
unchanged  when  the  causeways  and  shops  dis- 
appeared and  long  rows  of  houses  streamed  by, 
their  close  ranks  broken  only  by  an  occasional 
cross  road.     They  were  large,  high,  flat-fronted 


\ 


BACKWATER  13 

houses  with  flights  of  grey  stone  steps  leading  to 
their  porchless  doors.  They  had  tiny  railed-in 
front  gardens  crowded  with  shrubs.  Here  and 
there  long  narrow  strips  of  garden  pushed  a  row 
of  houses  back  from  the  roadway.  In  these 
longer  plots  stood  signboards  and  show-cases. 
"  Photographic  Studio,"  "  Commercial  College," 
"  Eye  Treatment,"  "  Academy  of  Dancing."  .  .  . 
She  read  the  announcements  with  growing  dis- 
quietude. 

Rows  of  shops  reappeared  and  densely  crowded 
pavements,  and  then  more  high  straight  houses. 

6 

She  roused  herself  at  last  from  her  puzzled 
contemplation  and  turned  to  glance  at  her 
mother.  Mrs.  Henderson  was  looking  out  ahead. 
The  exhausted  face  was  ready,  Miriam  saw,  with 
its  faintly  questioning  eyebrows  and  tightly-held 
lips,  for  emotional  response.  She  turned  away 
uneasily  to  the  spellbound  streets. 

"  Useless  to  try  to  talk  about  anything.  .  .  . 
Mother  would  be  somehow  violent.  She  would 
be  overpowering.  The  strange  new  impressions 
would  be  dissolved." 

But  she  must  do  something,  show  some  sign 


14  BACKWATER 

of  companionship.  She  began  humming  softly. 
The  air  was  so  full  of  clamour  that  she  could  not 
hear  her  voice.  The  houses  and  shops  had  dis- 
appeared. Drab  brick  walls  were  passing  slowly 
by  on  either  side.  A  goods'  yard.  She  deepened 
her  humming,  accentuating  her  phrases  so  that 
the  sound  might  reach  her  companion  through 
the  reverberations  of  the  clangour  of  shunting 
trains. 

7 

The  high  brick  walls  were  drawing  away.  The 
end  of  the  long  roadway  was  in  sight.  Its  widen- 
ing mouth  offered  no  sign  of  escape  from  the  dis- 
quieting strangeness.  The  open  stretch  of 
thoroughfare  into  which  they  emerged  was  fed 
by  innumerable  lanes  of  traffic.  From  the  islands 
dotted  over  its  surface  towered  huge  lamp  stan- 
dards branching  out  thin  arms.  As  they  rattled 
noisily  over  the  stone  setts  they  jolted  across 
several  lines  of  tramway  and  wove  their  way 
through  currents  of  traffic  crossing  each  other  in 
all  directions. 

"  I  wonder  where  we're  going — I  wonder  if 
this  is  a  Piccadilly  bus,"  Miriam  thought  of  say- 
ing.   Impossible  to  shout  through  the  din. 


BACKWATER  15 

8 

The  driver  gathered  up  his  horses  and  they 
clattered  deafeningly  over  the  last  open  stretch 
and  turned  into  a  smooth  wide  prospect. 

"  Oh  bliss,  wood-paving,"  murmured  Miriam. 

A  mass  of  smoke-greyed,  sharply  steepled  stone 
building  appeared  on  the  right.  Her  eyes  rested 
on  its  soft  shadows. 

On  the  left  a  tall  grey  church  was  coming  to- 
wards them,  spindling  up  into  the  sky.  It  sailed 
by,  showing  Miriam  a  circle  of  little  stone  pillars 
built  into  its  spire.  Plumy  trees  streamed  by, 
standing  large  and  separate  on  moss-green  grass 
railed  from  the  roadway.  Bright  white-faced 
houses  with  pillared  porches  shone  through  from 
behind  them  and  blazed  white  above  them 
against  the  blue  sky.  Wide  side-streets  opened 
showing  high  balconied  houses.  The  side  streets 
were  feathered  with  trees  and  ended  mistily. 

Away  ahead  were  edges  of  clean  bright  masonry 
in  profile,  soft  tufted  heads  of  trees,  bright  green 
in  the  clear  light.  At  the  end  of  the  vista 
the  air  was  like  pure  saffron-tinted  mother-of- 
pearl. 

Miriam  sat  back  and  drew  a  deep  breath. 


i6  BACKWATER 

9 

"  Well,  chickie  ?  " 

*'  What's  the  matter  ?  » 

"  Why,  youVe  been  very  funny  !  " 

"  How  ?  " 

"  You've  been  so  dummel." 

"  No,  I  haven't." 

"  Oh— eh." 

"  How  d'you  mean  I've  been  funny  ?  " 

"  Not  speaking  to  poor  old  mum-jam." 

"  Well,  you  haven't  spoken  to  me." 

*'  No." 

"  I  shan't  take  any  of  my  summer  things  there," 
said  Miriam. 

Mrs.  Henderson's  face  twitched. 

"  Shall  I  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  you  haven't  very  much  in  the  way 
of  thick  clothing." 

"  I've  only  got  my  plaid  dress  for  every  day 
and  my  mixy  grey  for  best  and  my  dark  blue 
summer  skirt.  My  velveteen  skirt  and  my  nain- 
sook blouse  are  too  old." 

"  You  can  wear  the  dark  blue  muslin  blouse 
with  the  blue  skirt  for  a  long  time  yet  with  some- 
thing warm  underneath." 


BACKWATER  17 

"  My  grey's  very  grubby." 

"  You  look  very  well  in  it  indeed." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  it's  all  gone  sort 
of  dull  and  grubby  over  the  surface  when  you 
look  down  it." 

"  Oh,  that's  your  imagination." 

"  It  isn't  my  imagination  and  I  can  see  how 
Harriett's  looks." 

"  You  both  look  very  nice." 

"  That's  not  the  point." 

"  Don't  make  a  mountain  out  of  a  molehill, 
my  chick." 

"  I'm  not  making  anything.  The  simple  fact  is 
that  the  grey  dresses  are  piggy." 

Mrs.  Henderson  flushed  deeply,  twining  and 
untwining  her  silk-gloved  fingers. 

"  She  thinks  that's  *  gross  exaggeration.'  That's 
what  she  wants  to  say,"  pondered  Miriam 
wearily. 

They  turned  into  Langham  Place. 

She  glanced  to  see  whether  her  mother  realised 
where  they  were. 

"  Look,  we're  in  the  West  End,  mother  !  Oh, 
I'm  not  going  to  think  about  Banbury  Park  till 
it  begins !  " 


i8  BACKWATER 

10 

They  drew  up  near  the  Maison  Nouvelle. 

"  Stanlake  is,"  said  a  refined  emphatic  voice 
from  the  pavement. 

Miriam  did  not  look  for  the  speaker.  The 
quahty  of  the  voice  brought  her  a  moment's 
realisation  of  the  meaning  of  her  afternoon's 
adventure.  She  was  going  to  be  shut  up  away 
from  the  grown-up  things,  the  sunlit  world,  and 
the  people  who  were  enjoying  it.  She  would  be 
shut  up  and  surrounded  in  Wordsworth  House,  a 
proper  schooly  school,  amongst  all  those  strange 
roadways.  It  would  be  cold  English  pianos  and 
dreadful  English  children — and  trams  going  up 
and  down  that  grey  road  outside. 

As  they  went  on  down  Regent  Street  she 
fastened,  for  refuge  from  her  thoughts,  upon  a 
window  where  softly  falling  dresses  of  dull  olive 
stood  about  against  a  draped  background  of  pale 
dead  yellow.  She  held  it  in  her  mind  as  shop 
after  shop  streamed  by. 

"  These  shops  are  extremely  recherche." 

"  It's  old  Regent  Street,  mother,"  said  Miriam 
argumentatively.  "  Glorious  old  Regent  Street. 
Ruby  wine." 


BACKWATER  19 

"  Ah,  Regent  Street." 

"  We  always  walk  up  one  side  and  down  the 
other.  Up  the  dolls'  hospital  side  and  down 
Liberty's.    Glory,  glory,  ruby  wine." 

"  You  are  enthusiastic." 

"  But  it's  so  glorious.    Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Sit  back  a  little,  chickie.  One  can't  see  the 
windows.    You're  such  a  solid  young  woman." 

*'  You'll  see  our  ABC  soon.  You  know.  The 
one  we  go  to  after  the  Saturday  pops.  You've 
been  to  it.  You  came  to  it  the  day  we  came  to 
Madame  Schumann's  farewell.  It's  just  round 
here  in  Piccadilly.  Here  it  is.  Glorious.  I  must 
make  the  others  come  up  once  more  before  I  die. 
I  always  have  a  scone.  I  don't  like  the  aryated 
bread.  We  go  along  the  Burlington  Arcade  too. 
I  don't  believe  you've  ever  been  along  there. 
It's  simply  perfect.  Glove  shops  and  fans  and  a 
smell  of  the  most  exquisite  scent  everywhere." 

"  Dear  me.    It  must  be  very  captivating." 

"  Now  we  shall  pass  the  parks.  Oh,  isn't  the 
sun  Ai  copper  bottom  !  " 

Mrs.  Henderson  laughed  wistfully. 

"  What  delicious  shade  under  those  fine  old 
trees.  I  almost  wish  I  had  brought  my  en-tout- 
casr 


20  BACKWATER 

"  Oh  no,  you  don't  really  want  it.  There  will 
be  more  breeze  presently.  The  bus  always  begins 
to  go  quicker  along  here.  It's  the  Green  Park, 
that  one.  Those  are  clubs  that  side,  the  West 
End  clubs.  It's  fascinating  all  the  way  along  here 
to  Hyde  Park  Corner.  You  just  see  Park  Lane 
going  up  at  the  side.  Park  Lane.  It  goes  wig- 
gling away,  straight  into  heaven.  We've  never 
been  up  there.  I  always  read  the  name  at  the 
corner." 

"  You  ridiculous  chick — ah,  there  is  the  Royal 
Academy  of  Arts." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  wonder  if  there  are  any  Leightons 
this  year." 

''  Or  Leader.  Charles  Leader.  I  think  there 
is  nothing  more  charming  than  those  landscape 
scenes  by  Leader." 

"  I've  got  three  bally  weeks.  I  can  see  Hyde 
Park.  We've  got  ages  yet.  It  goes  on  being 
fascinating  right  down  through  Kensington  and 
right  on  up  to  the  other  side  of  Putney 
Bridge." 

"  Dear  me.    Isn't  it  fascinating  after  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  all  that  awful  walk  along  the  Upper 
Richmond  Road — not  until  our  avenue  begins — " 


BACKWATER  21 

II 

Miriam  fumbled  with  the  fastening  of  the 
low  wide  gate  as  her  mother  passed  on  up  the 
drive.  She  waited  until  the  footsteps  were 
muffled  by  the  fullness  of  the  may  trees  Hnking 
their  middle  branches  over  the  bend  in  the  drive. 
Then  she  looked  steadily  down  the  sunflecked 
asphalted  avenue  along  which  they  had  just  come. 
The  level  sunlight  streamed  along  the  empty 
roadway  and  the  shadows  of  the  lime  trees  lay 
across  the  path  and  up  the  oak  palings.  Her 
eyes  travelled  up  and  down  the  boles  of  the  trees, 
stopping  at  each  little  stunted  tuft  of  greenery. 
She  could  no  longer  hear  her  mother's  footsteps. 
There  was  a  scented  coolness  in  the  shady 
watered  garden.  Leaning  gently  with  her  breast 
against  the  upper  bars  of  the  gate  she  broke 
away  from  the  sense  of  her  newly-made  engage- 
ment. 

She  scanned  the  whole  length  of  the  shrouded 
avenue  from  end  to  end  and  at  last  looked  freely 
up  amongst  the  interwoven  lime  trees.  Long 
she  watched,  her  eyes  roaming  from  the  closely- 
growing  leaves  where  the  green  was  densest  to 
the  edges  of  the  trees  where  the  light   shone 


22  BACKWATER 

through.  "  Gold  and  green,"  she  whispered, 
"  green  and  gold,  held  up  by  firm  brown  stems 
bathed  in  gold." 

When  she  reached  the  open  garden  beyond  the 
bend  she  ran  once  round  the  large  centre  bed 
where  berberus  and  laurestinus  bushes  stood  in  a 
clump  ringed  by  violas  and  blue  lobelias  and 
heavily  scented  masses  of  cherry-ripe.  Taking 
the  shallow  steps  in  two  silent  strides  she  reached 
the  shelter  of  the  deep  porch.  The  outer  door 
and  the  door  of  the  vestibule  stood  open.  Gently 
closing  the  vestibule  she  ran  across  the  paved 
hall  and  opened  the  door  on  the  right. 

Harriett,  in  a  long  fawn  canvas  dress  with  a 
deep  silk  sash,  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
drawing-room  floor  with  a  large  pot  of  scented 
geraniums  in  her  arms. 

12 

"  Hullo  !  "  said  Miriam. 

Putting  down  her  pot  Harriett  fixed  brown 
eyes  upon  her  and  began  jumping  lightly  up  and 
down  where  she  stood.  The  small  tips  of  her 
fawn  glace  kid  shoes  shone  together  between  the 
hem  of  her  dress  and  the  pale  green  of  the 
carpet. 


BACKWATER  23 

"  What  you  doing  ?  "  said  Miriam  quietly- 
shutting  the  door  behind  her  and  flushing  with 
pleasure. 

Harriett  hopped  more  energetically.  The 
blaze  from  the  western  window  caught  the  paste 
stone  in  the  tortoise-shell  comb  crowning  her 
little  high  twist  of  hair  and  the  prisms  of  the 
lustres  standing  behind  her  on  the  white  marble 
mantelpiece. 

"  What  you  doing,  booby  ?  " 

"  Old  conservatory,"  panted  Harriett. 

Miriam  looked  vaguely  down  the  length  of  the 
long  room  to  where  the  conservatory  doors  stood 
wide  open.  As  she  gazed  at  the  wet  tiling 
Harriett  ceased  hopping  and  kicked  her  delicately. 
"  WeU,  gooby  ?  " 

Miriam  grinned. 

"  You've  got  it.  I  knew  you  would.  The 
Misses  Perne  have  engaged  Miss  Miriam  Hender- 
son as  resident  teacher  for  the  junior  school." 

"  Oh  yes,  I've  got  it,"  smiled  Miriam.  "  But 
don't  let's  talk  about  that.  It's  just  an  old  school, 
a  house.  I  don't  know  a  bit  what  it'll  be  like. 
I've  got  three  bally  blooming  weeks.  Don't  let's 
talk  about  it." 

"Awri." 


24  BACKWATER 

"  What  about  Saturday  ?  " 

*'  It's  all  right.    Ted  was  at  the  club." 

"  Was  he  !  " 

"  Yes,  old  scarlet  face,  he  were." 

"  I'm  not:' 

"  He  came  in  just  before  closing  time  and 
straight  up  to  me  and  ast  where  you  were.  He 
looked  sick  when  I  told  him,  and  so  fagged." 

"  It  was  awfully  hot  in  town,"  murmured 
Miriam  tenderly. 

She  went  to  the  piano  and  struck  a  note  very 
softly. 

"  He  played  a  single  with  the  duffer  and  lost 
it." 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course,  he  was  so  tired." 

"  Yes,  but  it  wasn't  that.  It  was  because  you 
weren't  there.  He's  simply  no  good  when  you're 
not  there,  now.    He's  perfectly  different." 

Miriam  struck  her  note  again. 

"  Listen,  that's  E  flat." 

"  Go  on." 

"  That's  a  chord  in  E  flat.  Isn't  it  lovely  ? 
It  sounds  perfectly  different  in  C.  Listen.  Isn't 
it  funny  ?  " 

"  Well,  don't  you  want  to  know  why  it's  all 
light  about  Saturday  ?  " 


BACKWATER  25 

"  Yes,  screamingly." 

"Well,  that's  the  perfectly  flabbergasting  thing. 
Ted  simply  came  to  say  they've  got  a  man  coming 
to  stay  with  them  and  can  he  bring  him." 

"  My  dear  !  What  a  heavenly  relief.  That 
makes  twelve  men  and  fourteen  girls.  That'll 
do." 

"  Nan  Babington's  hurt  her  ankle,  but  she 
swears  she's  coming."  Harriett  sniffed  and  sank 
down  on  the  white  sheepskin,  drawing  her  knees 
up  to  her  chin. 

"  You  shouldn't  say  '  swears.'  " 

"  Well,  you  bet.    She  simply  loves  our  dances." 

"  Did  she  say  she  did  ?  " 

"  She  sat  on  the  pavilion  seat  with  Bevan  Sey- 
mour all  the  afternoon  and  I  was  with  them 
when  Ted  was  playing  with  the  duifer.  She  told 
Bevan  that  she  didn't  know  anywhere  else  where 
the  kids  arranged  the  dances,  and  everything  was 
so  jolly.    It's  screaviing,  my  dear,  she  said." 

"  It's  horrid  the  way  she  calls  him  *  my  dear.' 
Your  ring  is  simply  dazzhng  like  that,  Harry. 
D'you  see  ?    It's  the  sun." 

"  Of  course  it'll  mean  she'll  sit  out  in  a  deck 
chair  in  the  garden  with  Bevan  all  the  time." 

"  How  disgusting." 


26  BACKWATER 

"  It's  her  turn  for  the  pavilion  tea  on  Saturday. 
She's  coming  in  her  white  muslin  and  then  com- 
ing straight  on  here  with  two  sticks  and  wants 
us  to  keep  her  some  flowers.  Let's  go  and  have 
tea.    It'll  be  nearly  dinner  time." 

"  Has  Mary  made  a  cake  ?  " 

"  I  dunno.  Tea  was  to  be  in  the  breakfast- 
room  when  you  came  back." 

"  Why  not  in  the  conservatory  ?  " 

"  Because,  you  silly  old  crow,  I'm  beranging  it 
for  Saturday." 

"  Shall  we  have  the  piano  in  there  ?  " 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Twenty-six  of  us.  Perhaps  it'll  be  more 
blissful." 

"  If  we  have  the  breakfast-room  piano  in  the 
hall  it'll  bung  up  the  hall." 

"  Yes,  but  the  Erard  bass  is  so  perfect  for 
waltzes." 

"  And  the  be-rilliant  Collard  treble  is  so  all 
right  in  the  vatoire." 

"  I  thought  it  was  Eve  and  I  talked  about  the 
Collard  treble." 

"  Well,  I  was  there." 

"  Anyhow  we'll  have  the  grand  in  the  con- 
servatory.   Oh,  Bacchus  !    Ta-ra-ra-boom-deay." 


BACKWATER  27 

"  T^^,"  said  a  rounded  voice  near  the  keyhole. 

"  Eve  !  "  shouted  Miriam. 

The  door  opened  shghtly.  "  I  know,"  said  the 
voice. 

"  Come  in,  Eve,"  commanded  Miriam,  trying 
to  swing  the  door  wide. 

"  I  know,"  said  the  voice  quivering  with  the 
effort  of  holding  the  door.  "  I  know  all  about 
the  new  Misses  Perne  and  the  new  man — Max 
Sonnenheim — Max." 

"  This  way  out,"  called  Harriett  from  the  con- 
servatory. 

"  Eve,"  pleaded  Miriam,  tugging  at  the  door, 
"  let  me  get  at  you.    Don't  be  an  idiot." 

A  gurgle  of  amusement  made  her  loosen  her 
hold. 

"  I'm  not  trying,  you  beast.  Take  your  iron 
wrists  away." 

A  small  white  hand  waggled  fingers  through 
the  aperture. 

Miriam  seized  and  covered  it.  "  Come  in  for 
a  minute,"  she  begged.  "  I  want  to  see  you. 
What  have  you  got  on  ?  " 

"  Tea:' 

The  hand  twisted  itself  free  and  Eve  fled 
through  the  hall. 


28  BACKWATER 

Miriam  flung  after  her  with  a  yell  and  caught 
at  her  slender  body.  "  I've  a  great  mind  to  drag 
down  your  old  hair." 

"  Tea,"  smiled  Eve  serenely. 

"  All  right,  I'm  coming,  damn  you,  aren't  I  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mimmy  !  " 

"  Well,  damn  me,  then.  Somebody  in  the 
house  must  swear.    I  say,  Eve  ?  " 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  only  I  say.'' 

"  Um." 


CHAPTER    II 


MIRIAM  extended  herself  on  the  drawing- 
room  sofa  which  had  been  drawn  up 
at  the  end  of  the  room  under  the  open 
window. 

The  quintets  of  candles  on  the  girandoles 
hanging  on  either  side  of  the  high  overmantel 
gave  out  an  unflickering  radiance,  and  in  the 
centre  of  the  large  room  the  chandelier,  pulled 
low,  held  out  in  all  directions  bulbs  of  softly- 
tinted  light. 

In  an  intensity  of  rose-shaded  brilliance  pour- 
ing from  a  tall  standard  lamp  across  the  sheep- 
skin hearthrug  stood  a  guest  with  a  fiddle 
under  her  arm  fluttering  pages  on  a  music 
stand.  The  family  sat  grouped  towards  her  in 
a  circle. 

On  her  low  sofa,  outside  the  more  brilliant 
light,  Miriam  was  a  retreating  loop  in  the  circle 
of  seated  forms,  all  visible  as  she  lay  with  her 

29 


30  BACKWATER 

eyes  on  the  ceiling.  But  no  eyes  could  meet  and 
pilfer  her  own.  The  darkness  brimmed  in  from 
the  window  on  her  right.  She  could  touch  the 
rose-leaves  on  the  sill  and  listen  to  the  dewy  still- 
ness of  the  garden. 

"  What  shall  I  play  ?  "  said  the  guest. 

"  What  have  you  there  ?  " 

"  Gluck  ...  Klassische  Stiicke  .  .  .  Cava- 
tina.» 

"  Ah,  Gluck,"  said  Mr.  Henderson,  smoothing 
his  long  knees  with  outspread  fingers. 

"  Have  you  got  that  Beethoven  thing  ?  "  asked 
Sarah. 

"  Not  here,  Sally." 

"  I  saw  it — on  the  piano — with  chords,"  said 
Sarah  excitedly. 

"  Chords,"  encouraged  Miriam. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  muttered  Sarah  taking  up 
her  crochet.  "  I  daresay  I'm  wrong,"  she  giggled, 
throwing  out  a  foot  and  hastily  withdraw- 
ing it. 

"  I  can  find  it,  dear,"  chanted  the  guest. 

Miriam  raised  a  flourishing  hand.  The  crim- 
soned oval  of  Eve's  face  appeared  inverted  above 
her  own.  She  poked  a  finger  into  one  of  the 
dark  eyes  and  looking  at  the  screwed-up  lid  whis- 


BACKWATER  31 

pered  voicelessly,  "  Make  her  play  the  Romance 
first  and  then  the  Cavatina  without  talking  in 
between.  .  .  ." 

Eve's  large  soft  mouth  pursed  a  little,  and 
Miriam  watched  steadily  until  dimples  appeared. 
"  Go  on,  Eve,"  she  said,  removing  her  hand. 

"  Shall  I  play  the  Beethoven  first  ?  "  enquired 
the  guest. 

"  Mm — and  then  the  Cavatina,"  murmured 
Miriam,  as  if  half  asleep,  turning  wholly  towards 
the  garden,  as  Eve  went  to  collect  the  piano 
scores. 

2 

She  seemed  to  grow  larger  and  stronger  and 
easier  as  the  thoughtful  chords  came  musing  out 
into  the  night  and  hovered  amongst  the  dark  trees. 
She  found  herself  drawing  easy  breaths  and  re- 
laxing completely  against  the  support  of  the  hard 
friendly  sofa.  How  quietly  everyone  was  listen- 
ing. .  .  . 

After  a  while,  everything  was  dissolved,  past 
and  future  and  present  and  she  was  nothing  but 
an  ear,  intent  on  the  meditative  harmony  which 
stole  out  into  the  garden. 


32  BACKWATER 

3 

When  the  last  gently  strung  notes  had  ceased 
she  turned  from  her  window  and  found  Harriett's 
near  eye  fixed  upon  her,  the  eyebrow  travelling 
slowly  up  the  forehead. 

"  Wow,"  mouthed  Miriam. 

Harriett  screwed  her  mouth  to  one  side  and 
strained  her  eyebrow  higher. 

The  piano  introduction  to  the  Cavatina 
drowned  the  comments  on  the  guest's  playing  and 
the  family  relaxed  once  more  into  listening. 

"  Pink  anemones,  eh,"  suggested  Miriam  softly. 

Harriett  drew  in  her  chin  and  nodded  approv- 
ingly. 

"  Pink  anemones,"  sighed  Miriam,  and  turned 
to  watch  Margaret  Wedderburn  standing  in  her 
full-skirted  white  dress  on  the  hearthrug  in  a 
radiance  of  red  and  golden  light.  Her  heavily 
waving  fair  hair  fell  back  towards  its  tightly 
braided  basket  of  plaits  from  a  face  as  serene  as 
death.  From  between  furry  eyelashes  her  eyes 
looked  steadfastly  out,  robbed  of  their  everyday 
sentimental  expression. 

As  she  gazed  at  the  broad  white  forehead,  the 
fine  gold  down  covering  the  cheeks  and  upper 


BACKWATER  33 

lip,  and  traced  the  outline  of  the  heavy  chin 
and  firm  large  mouth  and  the  steady  arm  that 
swept  out  in  rich  'cello-like  notes  the  devout 
theme  of  the  lyric,  Miriam  drifted  to  an  extremity 
of  happiness. 

4 
.  .  .  To-morrow  the  room  would  be  lit  and 
decked  and  clear.  Amongst  the  crowd  of  guests, 
he  would  come  across  the  room,  walking  in  his 
way.  .  .  .  She  smiled  to  herself.  He  would 
come  "  sloping  in  "  in  his  way,  like  a  shadow,  not 
looking  at  anyone.  His  strange  friend  would  be 
with  him.  There  would  be  introductions  and 
greetings.  Then  he  would  dance  with  her  silently 
and  not  looking  at  her,  as  if  they  were  strangers, 
and  then  be  dancing  with  someone  else  .  .  .  with 
smiling,  mocking,  tender  brown  eyes  and  talking 
and  answering  and  all  the  time  looking  about  the 
room.  And  then  again  with  her,  cool  and  silent 
and  not  looking.  And  presently  she  would  tell 
him  about  going  away  to  Banbury  Park. 

5 
Perhaps  he  would  look  wretched  and  miserable 
again  as  he  had  done  when  they  were  alone  by 
the  piano  the  Sunday  before  she  went  to  Germany. 


34  BACKWATER 

..."  Play   '  Abide   with    me,'    Miriam  ;     play 
'  Abide  with  me.'  "... 

To-morrow  there  would  be  another  moment 
like  that.  He  would  say  her  name  suddenly,  as 
he  had  done  last  week  at  the  Babingtons'  dance, 
very  low,  half-turning  towards  her.  She  would 
be  ready  this  time  and  say  his  name  and  move 
instead  of  being  turned  to  stone.  Confidently 
the  music  assured  her  of  that  moment. 

6 

She  lay  looking  quietly  into  his  imagined  face 
till  the  room  had  gone.  Then  the  face  grew  dim 
and  far  off  and  at  last  receded  altogether  into 
darkness.  That  darkness  was  dreadful.  It  was 
his  own  life.  She  would  never  know  it.  However 
well  they  got  to  know  each  other  they  would 
always  be  strangers.  Probably  he  never  thought 
about  her  when  he  was  alone.  Only  of  Shake- 
speare and  politics.  What  would  he  think  if  he 
knew  she  thought  of  him  ?  But  he  thought  of 
her  when  he  saw  her.  That  was  utterly  certain  ; 
the  one  thing  certain  in  the  world.  .  .  .  That 
day,  coming  along  Putney  Hill  with  mother, 
tired  and  dull  and  trying  to  keep  her  temper, 
passing  his   house,   seeing  him   standing   at   his 


BACKWATER  35 

window,  alone  and  pale  and  serious.  The  sudden 
lightening  of  his  face  surprised  her  again,  vio- 
lently, as  she  recalled  it.  It  had  lit  up  the  whole 
world  from  end  to  end.  He  did  not  know  that 
he  had  looked  like  that.  She  had  turned  swiftly 
from  the  sudden  knowledge  coming  like  a  blow 
on  her  heart,  that  one  day  he  would  kiss  her. 
Not  for  years  and  years.  But  one  day  he  would 
bend  his  head.  She  wrenched  herself  from  the 
thought,  but  it  was  too  late.  She  thanked  heaven 
she  had  looked  ;  she  wished  she  had  not ;  the 
kiss  had  come  ;  she  would  forget  it ;  it  had  not 
touched  her,  it  was  like  the  breath  of  the  summer. 
Everything  had  wavered  ;  her  feet  had  not  felt 
the  pavement.  She  remembered  walking  on, 
exulting  with  hanging  head,  cringing  close  to 
the  ivy  which  hung  from  the  top  of  the  garden 
wall,  sorry  and  pitiful  towards  her  mother,  and 
everyone  who  would  never  stand  first  with  Ted. 

7 
.  .  .  There  were  girls  who  let  themselves  be 
kissed  for  fun.  .  .  .  Playing  "  Kiss  in  the  Ring," 
being  kissed  by  someone  they  did  not  mean  to 
always  be  with,  all  their  life  .  .  .  how  sad  and 
dreadful.    Why  did  it  not  break  their  hearts  ? 


36  BACKWATER 

8 

Meg  Wedderburn  was  smiling  on  her  hearthrug, 
being  thanked  and  praised.  Her  brown  vioHn 
hung  amongst  the  folds  of  her  skirt. 

"  People  do  like  us,"  mused  Miriam,  listening 
to  the  peculiar  sympathy  of  the  family  voice. 

Meg  was  there,  away  from  her  own  home, 
happy  with  them,  the  front  door  shut,  their 
garden  and  house  all  round  her  and  her  strange 
luggage  upstairs  in  one  of  the  spare  rooms.  Nice 
Meg.  .  .  . 

9 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning  Miriam  sat 
in  a  low  carpet  chair  at  a  window  in  the  long 
bedroom  she  shared  with  Harriett.  It  was  a 
morning  of  blazing  sunlight  and  bright  blue. 
She  had  just  come  up  through  the  cool  house 
from  a  rose-gathering  tour  of  the  garden  with 
Harriett.  A  little  bunch  of  pink  anemones  she 
had  picked  for  herself  were  set  in  a  tumbler  on 
the  wash-hand-stand. 

She  had  left  the  door  open  to  hear  coming 
faintly  up  from  the  far-away  drawing-room  the 
tap-tap  of  hammering  that  told  her  Sarah  and 
Eve  were  stretching  the  drugget. 


BACKWATER  37 

On  her  knee  lay  her  father's  cigarette-making 
machine  and  a  parcel  of  papers  and  tobacco.  An 
empty  cigarette  tin  stood  upon  the  window- 
sill. 

She  began  packing  tobacco  into  the  groove  of 
the  machine,  distributing  and  pressing  it  lightly 
with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  watching  as  she 
worked  the  heavy  pink  cups  of  the  anemones  and 
the  shining  of  their  green  stalks  through  the  water. 
They  were,  she  reflected,  a  little  too  much  out. 
In  the  sun  they  would  have  come  out  still  more. 
They  would  close  up  at  night  unless  the  rooms 
grew  very  hot.  Slipping  the  paper  evenly  into 
the  slot  she  shut  the  machine  and  turned  the 
roller.  As  the  sound  of  the  loosely  working  cogs 
came  up  to  her  she  revolted  from  her  self-imposed 
task.  She  was  too  happy  to  make  cigarettes.  It 
would  use  up  her  happiness  too  stupidly. 

She  was  surprised  by  a  sudden  suggestion  that 
she  should  smoke  the  single  cigarette  herself. 
Why  not  ?  Why  had  she  never  yet  smoked  one  ? 
She  glanced  at  the  slowly  swinging  door.  No  one 
would  come.  She  was  alone  on  the  top  floor. 
Everyone  was  downstairs  and  busy.  The  finished 
cigarette  lay  on  her  knee.  Taking  it  between  her 
fingers   she   pressed   a   little   hanging   thread   of 


38  BACKWATER 

tobacco  into  place.  The  cigarette  felt  pleasantly- 
plump  and  firm.  It  was  well  made.  As  she  rose 
to  get  matches  the  mowing  machine  sounded 
suddenly  from  the  front  lawn.  She  started  and 
looked  out  of  the  window,  concealing  the  cigarette 
in  her  hand.  It  was  the  gardener  with  bent 
shoulders  pushing  with  all  his  might.  With  some 
difficulty  she  unhitched  the  phosphorescent 
match-box  from  its  place  under  the  gas-bracket 
and  got  back  into  her  low  chair,  invisible  from 
the  lawn. 

The  cool  air  flowed  in  garden-scented.  She 
held  the  cigarette  between  two  fingers.  The 
match  hissed  and  flared  as  she  held  it  carefully 
below  the  sill,  and  the  flame  flowed  towards  her 
while  she  set  the  paper  alight.  Raising  the 
cigarette  to  her  lips  she  blew  gently  outwards, 
down  through  the  tobacco.  The  flame  twisted 
and  went  out,  leaving  the  paper  charred.  She 
struck  another  match  angrily,  urging  herself  to 
draw,  and  drew  little  panting  breaths  with  the 
cigarette  well  in  the  flame.  It  smoked.  Blowing 
out  the  match  she  looked  atvthe  end  of  the  cigar- 
ette. It  was  glowing  all  over  and  a  delicate  little 
spiral  of  smoke  rose  into  her  face.  Quickly  she 
applied  her  lips  again  and  drew  Httle   breaths. 


BACKWATER  39 

opening  her  mouth  wide  between  each  breath 
and  holding  the  cigarette  sideways  away  from 
her.  The  end  glowed  afresh  with  each  breath. 
The  paper  charred  evenly  away  and  little 
flecks  of  ash  fell  about  her. 

10 

A  third  of  the  whole  length  was  consumed. 
Her  nostrils  breathed  in  smoke,  and  as  she  tasted 
the  burnt  flavour  the  sweetness  of  the  unpolluted 
air  all  around  her  was  a  new  thing.  The  acrid 
tang  in  her  nostrils  intoxicated  her.  She  drew 
more  boldly.  There  was  smoke  in  her  mouth. 
She  opened  it  quickly,  sharply  exhaling  a  yellow 
cloud  oddly  different  from  the  grey  spirals  wreath- 
ing their  way  from  the  end  of  the  cigarette. 
She  went  on  drawing  in  mouthful  after  mouthful 
of  smoke,  expelling  each  quickly  with  widely- 
opened  lips,  turning  to  look  at  the  well-known 
room  through  the  yellow  haze  and  again  at  the 
sky,  which  drew  nearer  as  she  puffed  at  it.  The 
sight  of  the  tree-tops  scrolled  with  her  little 
clouds  brought  her  a  sense  of  power.  She  had 
chosen  to  smoke  and  she  was  smoking,  and  the 
morning  world  gleamed  back  at  her.  .  .  . 


40  ,  BACKWATER 

II 

The  morning  gleamed.  She  would  choose  her 
fate.  It  should  be  amongst  green  trees  and  sun- 
shine. That  daunted  lump  who  had  accepted  the 
post  at  Banbury  Park  had  nothing  to  do  with 
her.  Morning  gladness  flooded  her,  and  her 
gladness  of  the  thought  of  the  evening  to  come 
quickened  as  it  had  done  last  night  into  certainty. 

She  burned  the  last  inch  of  the  cigarette  in 
the  grate,  wrapped  with  combings  from  the 
toilet-tidy  in  a  screw  of  paper.  When  all  was 
consumed  she  carefully  replaced  the  summer 
bundle  of  ornamental  mohair  behind  the  bars. 

Useless  to  tell  anyone.  No  one  would  believe 
she  had  not  felt  ill.  She  found  it  difficult  to 
understand  why  anyone  should  feel  sick  from 
smoking.  Dizzy  perhaps  ...  a  little  drunk. 
Pater's  tobacco  was  very  strong,  some  people 
could  not  smoke  it.  .  .  .  She  had  smoked  a 
whole  cigarette  of  strong  tobacco  and  liked  it. 
Raising  her  arms  above  her  head  she  worked  them 
upwards,  stretching  every  muscle  of  her  body. 
No,  she  was  anything  but  ill. 

Leaving  the  window  wide  she  went  on  to  the 
landing.    The  smell  of  tobacco  was  ever)'"where. 


BACKWATER  41 

She  flung  into  each  room  in  turn,  throwing  up 
windows  and  leaving  doors  propped  ajar. 

Harriett  coming  up  the  garden  with  a  basket 
of  cut  flowers  saw  her  at  the  cook's  bedroom 
window. 

"  What  on  earth  you  doing  thayer ! "  she 
shrieked  putting  down  her  basket. 

Hanging  from  the  window  Miriam  made  a 
trumpet  of  her  hands. 

"  Something  blew  in  !  " 

12 

All  preparations  for  the  evening  were  made 
and  the  younger  members  of  the  household  were 
having  a  late  tea  in  the  breakfast-room.  "  We've 
done  the  alcoves,"  said  Sarah  explosively,  "  in 
case  it  rains." 

Nan  Babington  sat  up  in  her  long  chair  to 
bring  her  face  round  to  the  deep  bay  where 
Sarah  stood. 

*'  My  dear  !  Seraphina  !  And  she's  doing  the 
pink  bows  !  Will  some  saint  take  my  cup  ?  Ta. 
.  .  .  My  dear,  how  perfectly  screaming." 

Miriam  raised  her  head  from  the  petal-scattered 
table,  where  she  lay  prone  side  by  side  with 
Harriett,  to  watch  Nan  sitting  up  in  her  firm 


42  BACKWATER 

white  dress  beaming  at  Sarah  through  her 
slanting  eye. 

"  What  flowers  you  going  to  wear,  Nan  ?  " 

Nan  patted  her  sleek  slightly  Japanese-looking 
hair.  "  Ah  .  .  .  splashes  of  scarlet,  my  dear. 
Splashes  of  scarlet.  One  in  my  hair  and  one 
here."  She  patted  the  broad  level  of  her  enviable 
breast  towards  the  left  shoulder. 

"  Almost  on  the  shoulder,  you  know — arranged 
flat,  can't  be  squashed  and  showing  as  you 
dance." 

"  Geraniums !  Oom.  You've  got  awfully  good 
taste.  What  a  frightfully  good  effect.  Bright 
red  and  bright  white.     Clean.     Go  on.  Nan." 

"  Killing,^^  pursued  Nan.  "  Tom  said  at 
breakfast  with  his  mouth  absolutely  full  of  sweet- 
bread, '  it'll  rain ' — growled,  you  know,  with  his 
mouth  crammed  full.  '  Never  mind.  Tommy,' 
said  Ella  with  the  utmost  promptitude,  '  they're 
sure  to  have  the  alcoves.'  '  Oomph,'  growled 
Tommy,  pretending  not  to  care.  Naughty 
Tommy,  naughty,  naughty  Tommy  !  " 

"  Any  cake  left  ?  "  sighed  Miriam,  sinking  back 
amongst  her  petals  and  hoping  that  Nan's  voice 
would  go  on. 

"  You  girls  are  the  most  adorable  individuals 


BACKWATER  43 

I  ever  met.  .  .  .  Did  anybody  see  Pearlie  going 
home  this  afternoon  ?  " 

Everyone  chuckled  and  waited. 

"  My  dears  I  My  dears  !  !  Bevan  dragged  me 
along  to  the  end  of  the  pavilion  to  see  him  enter 
up  the  handicaps  with  his  new  automatic  pen — 
awfully  smashing — and  I  was  just  hobbling  the 
last  few  yards  past  the  apple  trees  when  we  saw 
Pearlie  hand-in-hand  with  the  Botterford  boys, 
prancing  along  the  asphalt  court — francing,  my 
dears  !  " 

Miriam  and  Harriett  dragged  themselves  up 
to  see.  Nan  bridled  and  swayed  from  listener  to 
listener,  her  wide  throat  gleaming  as  she  sang 
out  her  words. 

"  Prancing — with  straggles  of  grey  hair  stick- 
ing out  and  that  tiny  sailor  hat  cocked  almost  on 
to  her  nose.  My  dear,  you  sh'd've  seen  Bevan  ! 
He  put  up  his  eyeglass,  my  dears,  for  a  fraction  of 
a  second,"  Nan's  head  went  up — "  Madame  Pom- 
padour," thought  Miriam — and  her  slanting  eyes 
glanced  down  her  nose,  "  and  dropped  it,  clickety- 
click.  You  sh'd've  seen  the  expression  on  his 
angelic  countenance." 

"  I  say,  she  is  an  awful  little  creature,  isn't 
she  ?  "  said  Miriam,  watching  Eve  bend  a  crimson 


44  BACKWATER 

face  over  the  tea-tray  on  the  hearthrug.  "  She 
put  her  boots  on  the  paviHon  table  this  afternoon 
when  all  those  men  were  there — about  a  mile 
high  they  are — ^with  tassels.  Why  does  she  go  on 
like  that  ?  " 

"  Men  like  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  Sarah 
lightly. 

"  Sally  1  » 

"  They  do.  ...  I  believe  she  drinks." 

"Sally!    Mjdearr' 

"  I  believe  she  does.  She's  always  having 
shandygaff  with  the  men." 

"  Oh,  well,  perhaps  she  doesn't,"  murmured  Eve. 

"  Chuck  me  a  lump  of  sugar.  Eve." 

Miriam  subsided  once  more  amongst  the  rose 
petals. 

"  Bevvy  thinks  I  oughtn't  to  dance.'* 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  my  dear.  But  old  Wyman  said  I 
could,  every  third,  except  the  Lancers." 

"  You  sh'd've  seen  Bevvy's  face.  '  Brother 
Tommy  doesn't  object,'  I  said.  '  He's  going  to 
look  after  me  ! '  '  /j  he  ?  '  said  Bevvy  in  his  most 
superior  manner." 

"  What  a  fearful  scrunching  you're  making," 
said  Harriett,  pinching  Miriam's  nose. 


BACKWATER  45 

"  Let's  go  and  dress,"  said  Miriam,  rolling  off 
the  table. 

13 

"  How  many  times  has  she  met  him  ?  "  asked 
Miriam  as  they  went  through  the  hall. 

'*  I  dunno.    Not  many." 

"  I  think  it's  simply  hateful." 

"  Mimmy  !  "    It  was  Nan's  insinuating  voice. 

"  Coming,"  called  Miriam.  "  And,  you  know, 
Tommy  needn't  think  he  can  carry  on  with  Meg 
in  an  alcove." 

"  What  would  she  think  ?  Let's  go  and  tell 
Meg  she  must  dress." 

"  Mimmy  !  " 

Miriam  went  back  and  put  her  head  round  the 
breakfast-room  door. 

"  Let  me  see  you  when  you're  dressed." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  kiss  the  back  of  your  neck,  my  dear  ; 
love  kissing  people's  necks." 

Miriam  smiled  herself  vaguely  out  of  the  room, 
putting  away  the  unpleasant  suggestion. 

"  I  wish  I'd  got  a  dress  like  Nan's,"  she  said, 
joining  Harriett  in  the  dark  lobby. 

"  I  say,  somebody's  been  using  the  '  Financial 
Times '   to  cut  up  flowers  on.     It's  all  wet." 


46  BACKWATER 

Harriett  lifted  the  limp  newspaper  from  the 
marble-topped  coil  of  pipes  and  shook  it. 

"  Hang  it  up  somewhere." 

"  Where  ?     Everything's  cleared  up." 

"  Stick  it  out  of  the  lavatory  window  and  pull 
the  window  down  on  it." 

"  Awri,  you  hold  the  door  open." 

Miriam  laughed  as  Harriett  fell  into  the  room. 

"  Blooming  boot-jack." 

"Is  it  all  right  in  there  ?  Are  all  the  pegs 
clear  ?    Is  the  washing-basin  all  right  ?  " 

A  faint  light  came  in  as  Harriett  pushed  up 
the  frosted  pane. 

"  Here's  a  pair  of  boots  all  over  the  floor  and 
your  old  Zulu  hat  hanging  on  a  peg.  The  basin's 
all  right  except  a  perfectly  foul  smell  of  nicotine. 
It's  pater's  old  feather." 

"  That  doesn't  matter.  The  men  won't  mind 
that.  My  old  hat  can  stay.  There  are  ten  pegs 
out  here  and  all  the  slab,  and  there's  hardly  any- 
thing on  the  hall  stand.  That's  it.  Don't  cram 
the  window  down  so  as  to  cut  the  paper.  That'll 
do.    Come  on." 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  really  stunning  dress,"  remarked 
Miriam,  as  they  tapped  across  the  wide  hall. 

"  You  needn't." 


BACKWATER  47 

The  drawing-room  door  was  open.  They  sur- 
veyed the  sea  of  drugget,  dark  grey  in  the  fading 
light.  "  Pong-pong-pong  de  doodle,  ^ow^-pong- 
pong  de  doodle,"  murmured  Miriam  as  they  stood 
swaying  on  tiptoe  in  the  doorway. 

"  Let's  have  the  gas  and  two  candlesticks, 
Harry,  on  the  dressing-table  under  the  gas." 

"  All  right,"  mouthed  Harriett  in  a  stage 
whisper,  making  for  the  stairs  as  the  breakfast- 
room  door  opened. 

It  was  Eve.  "  I  say,  Eve,  I'm  scared,^^  said 
Miriam,  meeting  her. 

Eve  giggled  triumphantly. 

"  Look  here.  I  shan't  come  down  at  first.  I'll 
play  the  first  dance.  I'll  get  them  all  started 
with  '  Bitter-Sweet.'  " 

"  Don't  worry,  Mim." 

"  My  dear,  I  simply  don't  know  how  to  face 
the  evening." 

"  You  do,"  murmured  Eve.  "  You  are 
proud." 

"  What  of  ?  " 

"  You  know  quite  well." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  He's  the  nicest  boy  we  know." 

"  But  he's  not  my  boy.    Of  course  not.    You're 


48  BACKWATER 

insane.  Besides,  I  don't  know  who  you're  talking 
about." 

"  Oh,  well,  we  won't  talk.  We'll  go  and  arrange 
your  chignon." 

"  I'm  going  to  have  simply  twists  and  perhaps 
a  hair  ornament." 

H 

Miriam  reached  the  conservatory  from  the 
garden  door  and  set  about  opening  the  lid  of 
the  grand  piano.  She  could  see  at  the  far  end 
of  the  almost  empty  drawing-room  a  little  ruddy 
thick-set  bearded  man  with  a  roll  of  music  under 
his  arm  talking  to  her  mother.  He  was  standing 
very  near  to  her,  surrounding  her  with  his 
eager  presence.  "  Mother's  wonderful,"  thought 
Miriam,  with  a  moment's  adoration  for  Mrs. 
Henderson's  softly-smiling  girlish  tremulousness. 
Listening  to  the  man's  hilarious  expostulating 
narrative  voice  she  fumbled  hastily  for  her  waltz 
amongst  the  scattered  piles  of  music  on  the  lid 
of  the  piano. 

As  she  struck  her  opening  chords  she  watched 
her  mother  gently  quell  the  narrative  and  steer 
the  sturdy  form  towards  a  group  of  people  hesi- 
tating in  the  doorway.    "  Have  they  had  coffee  ?  " 


BACKWATER  49 

she  wondered  anxiously.  "  Is  Mary  driving  them 
into  the  dining-room  properly  ?  "  Before  she 
had  reached  the  end  of  her  second  page  everyone 
had  disappeared.  She  paused  a  moment  and 
looked  down  the  brightly  lit  empty  room — the 
sight  of  the  cold  sheeny  drugget  filled  her  with 
despair.  The  hilarious  voice  resounded  in  the 
hall.  There  couldn't  be  many  there  yet.  Were 
they  all  looking  after  them  properly  ?  For  a 
moment  she  was  tempted  to  leave  her  piano  and 
go  and  make  some  desperate  attempt  at  geniality. 
Then  the  sound  of  the  pervading  voice  back 
again  in  the  room  and  brisk  footsteps  coming  to- 
wards the  conservatory  drove  her  back  to  her 
music.  The  little  man  stepped  quickly  over  the 
low  moulding  into  the  conservatory. 

"  Ah,  Mariamne,"  he  blared  gently. 

"  Oh,  Bennett,  you  angel,  how  did  you  get 
here  so  early  ?  "  responded  Miriam,  playing  with 
zealous  emphasis. 

''  Got  old  Barrowgate  to  finish  off  the  out- 
patients," he  said  with  a  choke  of  amusement. 

"  I  say,  Mirry,  don't  you  play.  Let  me  take 
it  on.  You  go  and  ply  the  light  fantastic."  He 
laid  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  burred  the 
tune  she  was  playing  like  a  muted  euphonium 


so  BACKWATER 

over  the  top  of  her  head.  "  No.  It's  all  right. 
Go  and  get  them  dancing.  Get  over  the  awful- 
ness — you  know." 

"  Get  over  the  awfulness,  eh  ?  Oh,  I'll  get 
over  the  awfulness." 

"  Ssh — are  there  many  there  ?  " 

They  both  looked  round  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

Nan  Babington  was  backing  slowly  up  and  down 
the  room  supported  by  the  outstretched  arms  of 
Bevan  Seymour,  her  black  head  thrown  back 
level  with  his,  the  little  scarlet  knot  in  her  hair 
hardly  registering  the  smooth  movements  of  her 
invisible  feet. 

"  They  seem  to  have  begun,"  shouted  Bennett 
in  a  whisper  as  Harriett  and  her  fiance  swung 
easily  circling  into  the  room  and  were  followed 
by  two  more  couples. 

"  Go  and  dance  with  Meg.  She  only  knows 
Tommy  Babington." 

"  Like  the  Hd  up  ?  " 

15 

Miriam's  rhythmic  clangour  doubled  its  reson- 
ance in  the  tiled  conservatory  as  the  great  lid  of 
the  piano  went  up. 


BACKWATER  51 

"  Magnifique,  Mirry,  parfaitement  magnifi- 
que,"  intoned  Tommy  Babington,  appearing  in 
the  doorway  with  Meg  on  his  arm. 

"  Bonsoir,  Tomasso." 

"  You  are  like  an  expressive  metronome." 

"  Oh — nom  d'un  pipe." 

"  You  would  make  a  rhinoceros  dance." 

Adjusting  his  pince-nez  he  dexterously  seized 
tall  Meg  and  swung  her  rapidly  in  amongst  the 
dancers. 

"  Sarah'll  say  he's  had  a  Turkish  bath,"  thought 
Miriam,  recalling  the  unusual  clear  pallor  of  his 
rather  overfed  face.  "  Pleated  shirt.  That's  to 
impress  Meg." 

She  felt  all  at  once  that  the  air  seemed  cold. 
It  was  not  like  a  summer  night.  How  badly  the 
ferns  were  arranged.  Nearly  all  of  them  to- 
gether on  the  staging  behind  the  end  of  the  piano  ; 
not  enough  visible  from  the  drawing-room.  Her 
muscles  were  somehow  stiffening  into  the  wrong 
mood.  Presently  she  would  be  playing  badly. 
She  watched  the  forms  circling  past  the  gap  in 
the  curtains  and  slowed  a  little.  The  room  seemed 
fairly  full. 

"  That's  it — perfect,  Mim,"  signalled  Har- 
riett's partner,  swinging  her  by.    She  held  to  the 


52  BACKWATER 

fresh  rhythm  and  passing  into  a  tender  old  waltz 
tune  that  she  knew  by  heart  gave  herself  to  her 
playing.  She  need  not  watch  the  feet  any  longer. 
She  could  go  on  for  ever.  She  knew  she  was  not 
playing  altogether  for  the  dancers.  She  was 
playing  to  two  hearers.  But  she  could  not  play 
that  tune  if  they  came.  They  would  be  late. 
But  they  must  be  here  now.  Where  were  they  ? 
Were  they  having  coffee  ?  Dancing  ?  She  flung 
a  terrified  glance  at  the  room  and  met  the  cold 
eye  of  Bevan  Seymour.  She  would  not  look 
again.  The  right  feeUng  for  the  dreamy  old  tune 
came  and  went  uncontrollably.  Why  did  they 
not  come  ?  Presently  she  would  be  cold  and  sick 
and  done  for,  for  the  evening.  She  played  on, 
harking  back  to  the  memory  of  the  kindly  chal- 
lenge in  the  eyes  of  her  brother-in-law  to  be, 
dancing  gravely  with  a  grave  Harriett — fearing 
her  .  .  .  writing  in  her  album  : 

"  She  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts — 
Which  terminated  all." 

.  .  .  cold,  calm  little  Harriettt.  Her  waltz  had 
swung  soft  and  low  and  the  dancers  were  hushed. 
Only  Tommy  Babington's  voice  still  threaded 
the  little  throng. 


BACKWATER  53 

Someone  held  back  the  near  curtain.  A  voice 
said  quietly,  "  Here  she  is." 

16 

Ted's  low,  faintly-mocking  voice  filled  the  con- 
servatory. 

He  was  standing  very  near  her,  looking  down 
at  her  with  his  back  to  the  gay  room.  Yesterday's 
dream  had  come  more  than  true,  at  once,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  evening.  He  had  come  straight 
to  her  with  his  friend,  not  dancing,  not  looking 
for  a  partner.  They  were  in  the  little  green  en- 
closure with  her.  The  separating  curtains  had 
fallen  back  into  place. 

Behind  the  friend  who  stood  leaning  against  the 
far  end  of  the  piano,  the  massed  fernery  gleamed 
now  with  the  glow  of  concealed  fairy  lamps.  She 
had  not  noticed  it  before.  The  fragrance  of 
fronds  and  moist  warm  clumps  of  maidenhair 
and  scented  geraniums  inundated  her  as  she 
glanced  across  at  the  light  falling  on  hard  sculp- 
tured waves  of  hair  above  a  white  handsome 
face. 

Her  music  held  them  all,  protecting  the  word- 
less meeting.  Her  last  night's  extremity  of  con- 
tent was  reality,  being  lived  by  all  three  of  them. 


54  BACKWATER 

It  centred  in  herself.  Ted  stood  within  it, 
happy  in  it.  The  friend  watched,  witnessing 
Ted's  confession.  Ted  had  said  nothing  to  him 
about  her,  about  any  of  them,  in  his  usual  way. 
But  he  was  disguising  nothing  now  that  he  had 
come. 

At  the  end  of  her  playing  she  stood  up  faintly 
dizzy,  and  held  out  towards  Max  Sonnenheim's 
familiar  strangeness  hands  heavy  with  happiness 
and  quickened  with  the  sense  of  Ted's  touch  upon 
her  arm.  The  swift  crushing  of  the  strange 
hands  upon  her  own,  steadied  her  as  the  curtains 
swung  wide  and  a  group  of  dancers  crowded  in. 

17 

"  Don't  tell  N.B.  we've  scrubbed  the  coffin, 
Miriorama — she'll  sit  there  all  the  evening." 

"  That  was  my  sister  and  my  future  brother- 
in-law,"  said  Miriam  to  Max  Sonnenheim  as 
Harriett  and  Gerald  ran  down  the  steps  and  out 
into  the  dark  garden. 

"  Your  sister  and  brother-in-law,"  he  responded 
thoughtfully. 

He  was  standing  at  her  side  at  the  top  of  the 
garden  steps  staring  out  into  the  garden  and  ap- 
parently not  noticing  the  noisy  passers-by.     If 


BACKWATER  55 

they  stood  there  much  longer,  Ted,  who  had  not 
been  dancing,  would  join  them.  She  did  not 
want  that.  She  would  put  off  her  dance  with 
Ted  until  later.  The  next  dance  she  would  play 
herself  and  then  perhaps  dance  again  with  Max. 
Once  more  from  the  strange  security  of  his 
strongly  swinging  arms  she  would  meet  Ted's 
eyes,  watching  and  waiting.  She  must  dance 
once  more  with  Max.  She  had  never  really 
danced  before.  She  would  go  to  Ted  at  last  and 
pass  on  the  spirit  of  her  dancing  to  him.  But  not 
yet. 

"  I  will  show  you  the  front  garden,"  she  said, 
running  down  the  steps. 

He  joined  her  and  they  walked  silently  round 
the  side  of  the  house,  through  the  kitchen  yard 
and  out  into  the  deserted  carriage  drive.  She 
thought  she  saw  people  on  the  front  lawn  and 
walked  quickly,  humming  a  little  tune,  on  down 
the  drive. 

Max  crunched  silently  along  a  little  apart  from 
her,  singing  to  himself. 

18 

Both  sides  of  the  front  gate  were  bolted  back 
and  their  footsteps  carried  them  straight  out  on 


56  BACKWATER 

to  the  asphalted  avenue  extending  right  and  left, 
a  dim  tunnel  of  greenery,  scarcely  lit  by  the  lamps 
out  in  the  roadway.  With  a  sudden  sense  of 
daring,  Miriam  determined  to  assume  the  de- 
serted avenue  as  part  of  the  garden. 

The  gate  left  behind,  they  made  their  way 
slowly  along  the  high  leafy  tunnel. 

They  would  walk  to  the  end  of  the  long 
avenue  and  back  again.  In  a  moment  she  would 
cease  humming  and  make  a  remark.  She  tasted 
a  new  sense  of  ease,  walking  slowly  along  with 
this  strange  man  without  "  making  conversa- 
tion." He  was  taking  her  silence  for  granted. 
All  her  experience  so  far  had  been  of  companions 
whose  uneasiness  pressed  unendurably  for  speech, 
and  her  talking  had  been  done  with  an  irritated 
sense  of  the  injustice  of  aspersions  on  "  women's 
tongues,"  while  no  man  could  endure  a  woman's 
silence  .  .  .  even  Ted,  except  when  dancing ; 
no  woman  could,  except  Minna,  in  Germany. 
Max  must  be  foreign,  of  course,  German — of 
course.  She  could,  if  she  liked,  talk  of  the  stars 
to  him.  He  would  neither  make  jokes  nor  talk 
science  and  want  her  to  admire  him,  until  all 
the  magic  was  gone.  Her  mood  expanded.  He 
had  come  just  at  the  right  moment.    She  would 


BACKWATER  57 

keep  him  with  her  until  she  had  to  face  Ted. 
He  was  like  a  big  ship  towing  the  little  barque 
of  her  life  to  its  harbour. 

His  vague  humming  rose  to  a  little  song.  It 
was  German.  It  was  the  Lorelei.  For  a  moment 
she  forgot  everything  but  pride  in  her  ability  to 
take  her  share  in  both  music  and  words. 

"  You  understand  German  !  "  he  cried. 

They  had  reached  the  end  of  the  avenue  and 
the  starlit  roadway  opened  ahead,  lined  with 
meadows. 

"  Ach,  wie  schon,"  breathed  Max. 

"  Wie  schon."  Miriam  was  startled  by  the  gay 
sound  of  her  own  voice.  It  sounded  as  if  she  were 
alone,  speaking  to  herself.  She  looked  up  at  the 
spangled  sky.  The  freshening  air  streamed  to- 
wards them  from  the  meadows. 

"  We  must  go  back,"  she  said  easily,  turning  in 
again  under  the  trees. 

The  limes  seemed  heavily  scented  after  their 
breath  of  the  open.  They  strolled  dreamily  along 
keeping  step  with  each  other.  They  would  make 
it  a  long  quiet  way  to  the  gate.  Miriam  felt 
strangely  invisible.  It  was  as  if  in  a  moment  a 
voice  would  come  from  the  clustering  lime  trees 
or  from  the  cluster  of  stars  in  the  imagined  sky. 


58  BACKWATER 

"  Wie  siiss,"  murmured  Max,  "  ist  treue 
Liebe." 

"  How  dear,"  she  translated  mentally,  "  is  true 
love.'*  Yes,  that  was  it,  that  was  true,  the  Ger- 
man phrase.  Ted  was  dear,  dear.  But  so  far 
away.    Coming  and  going,  far  away. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  she  said  with  a  vague,  sweet  intona- 
tion, to  hear  more. 

"  Wie  siiss,  wie  siiss,"  he  repeated  firmly, 
flinging  his  arm  across  her  shoulders. 

The  wildly  shimmering  leafage  rustled  and 
seemed  to  sing.  She  walked  on  horrified,  cradled, 
her  elbow  resting  in  her  companion's  hand, as  in 
a  cup.  She  laughed,  and  her  laughter  mingled 
with  the  subdued  lilting  of  the  voice  close  at 
her  side.  Ted  was  waiting  somewhere  in  the 
night  for  her.  Ted.  Ted.  Not  this  stranger. 
But  why  was  he  not  bold  like  this  ?  Primly  and 
gently  she  disengaged  herself. 

She  and  Ted  would  walk  along  through  the 
darkness  and  it  would  shout  to  them.  Day-time 
colours  seemed  to  be  shining  through  the  night. 
.  .  .  She  turned  abruptly  to  her  companion. 

"  Aren't  the  lime  trees  jolly  ?  "  she  said  con- 
versationally. 

"  You  will  dance  again  with  me  ?  " 


BACKWATER  59 

"  Yes,  if  you  like." 

"  I  must  go  so  early." 

"  Must  you  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  morning  early  I  go  abroad." 

"  Hullo  !  " 

"  Where  were  you  all  that  last  dance  ?  " 

Nan  Babington's  voice  startled  her  as  they 
came  into  the  bright  hall  through  the  open  front 
door. 

She  smiled  towards  Nan,  sitting  drearily  with 
a  brilliant  smile  on  her  face  watching  the  dancers 
from  a  long  chair  drawn  up  near  the  drawing- 
room  door,  and  passed  on  into  the  room  with  her 
hand  on  her  partner's  arm.  They  had  missed  a 
dance  and  an  interval.  It  must  have  been  a 
Lancers  and  now  there  was  another  waltz. 

Several  couples  were  whirling  gravely  about. 
Amongst  them  she  noted  Bevan  Seymour,  up- 
right and  slender,  dancing  with  Harriett  with  an 
air  of  condescending  vivacity,  his  bright  teeth 
showing  all  the  time.  Her  eyes  were  ready  for 
Ted.  She  was  going  to  meet  his  for  the  first 
time — just  one  look,  and  then  she  would  fly  for 
her  life  anywhere,  to  anybody.     And  he  would 


6o  BACKWATER 

find  her  and  make  her  look  at  him  again.  Ted. 
He  was  not  there.  People  were  glancing  at  her, 
curiously.  She  veiled  her  waiting  eyes  and  felt 
their  radiance  stream  through  her,  flooding  her 
with  strength  from  head  to  foot.  How  battered 
and  ordinary  everyone  had  looked,  frail  and  sick, 
stamped  with  a  pallor  of  sickness.  How  she  pitied 
them  all. 

"  Let  us  take  a  short  turn,"  said  Max,  and  his 
arms  came  around  her.  As  they  circled  slowly 
down  the  length  of  the  room  she  stared  at  his 
black  shoulder  a  few  inches  from  her  eyes.  His 
stranger's  face  was  just  above  her  in  the  bright 
light ;  his  strange  black-stitched  glove  holding 
her  mittened  hand.  His  arms  steadied  her  as 
they  neared  the  conservatory. 

"  Let  us  go  out,"  she  heard  him  say,  and  her 
footsteps  were  guided  across  the  moulding,  her 
arm  retained  in  his.  Meg  Wedderburn  was 
playing  and  met  her  with  her  sentimental  smile. 
In  the  gloom  at  her  side,  just  beyond  the  shaded 
candle,  stood  Ted  ready  to  turn  the  music,  his 
disengaged  hand  holding  the  bole  of  a  tall  palm. 
He  dropped  his  hands  and  turned  as  they  passed 
him,  almost  colliding  with  Miriam.  "  Next 
dance  with  me,"  he  whispered  neatly.     "  Will 


BACKWATER  6i 

you  show  me  your  coffin  ?  "  asked  Max  as  they 

reached  the  garden  steps. 

"  It's  quite  down  at  the  end  beyond  the  kitchen 

garden." 

20 

"  There  are  raspberry  canes  all  along  here,  on 
both  sides — trailing  all  over  the  place  ;  the  gar- 
dener puts  up  stakes  and  things  but  they  manage 
to  trail  all  over  the  place." 

"  Ah,  yes." 

"  Some  of  them  are  that  pale  yellow  kind,  the 
colour  of  champagne.  You  can  just  see  how 
they  trail.  Isn't  it  funny  how  dark  they  are,  and 
yet  the  colour's  there  all  the  time,  isn't  it  ?  They 
are  lovely  in  the  day,  lovely  leaves  and  great  big 
fruit,  and  in  between  are  little  squatty  goose- 
berry bushes,  all  kinds,  yellow  and  egg-shaped  like 
plums,  and  little  bright  green  round  ones  and 
every  kind  of  the  ordinary  red  kind.  Do  you 
know  the  little  bright  green  ones,  quite  bright 
green  when  they're  ripe,  like  bright  green 
chartreuse  ?  " 

"  No.  The  green  chartreuse  of  course  I  know. 
But  green  ripe  gooseberries  I  have  not  seen." 

"  I  expect  you  only  know  the  unripe  green 
ones  they  make  April  fool  of." 


62  BACKWATER 

"  April  fool  ?  " 

"  I  mean  gooseberry  fool.  Do  you  know  why 
men  are  like  green  gooseberries  f  " 

"No.    Why  are  they?    Tell  me." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  not  like  it.  We  are  pass- 
ing the  apple  trees  now ;  quarendens  and  stib- 
bards." 

"  Tell  me.    I  shall  like  what  you  say." 

"  Well,  it's  because  women  can  make  fools  of 
them  whenever  they  like." 

Max  laughed ;  a  deep  gurgling  laugh  that 
echoed  back  from  the  wall  in  front  of  them. 

"  We  are  nearly  at  the  end  of  the  garden." 

"  I  think  you  would  not  make  a  man  a  fool. 
No  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    I've  never  thought  about  it." 

"  You  have  not  thought  much  about  men." 

"  I  don't  know." 

"But  they,  they  have  thought  about  you." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"  You  do  not  care,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know. 
Here's  the  cofhn.  I'm  afraid  it's  not  very  com- 
fortable.    It's  so  low." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  It's    an    overturned  seedling  box.      There's 


BACKWATER  63 

grass  all  round.  I  wonder  whether  it's  damp," 
said  Miriam  suddenly  invaded  by  a  general  un- 
certainty. 

"  Oh,  we  will  sit  down,  it  will  not  be  damp. 
Your  future  brother-in-law  has  not  scrubbed 
also  the  ivy  on  the  wall,"  he  pursued  as  they  sat 
down  on  the  broad  low  seat,  "  it  will  spoil  your 
blouse." 

Miriam  leaned  uncomfortably  against  the 
intervening  arm. 

"  Isn't  it  a  perfectly  lovely  night  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  feel  that  you  would  not  make  of  a  man  a 
fool.  .  .  ." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

*'  I  feel  that  there  is  no  poison  in  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  People  .  .  .  poisonous 
.  .  .  What  a  horrible  idea. 

"  Just  what  I  say." 

"  I  know  in  a  way.  I  think  I  know  what  you 
mean." 

"  I  feel  that  there  is  no  poison  in  you.  I  have 
not  felt  that  before  with  a  woman." 

"  Aren't  women  awful  ?  "  Miriam  made  a 
little  movement  of  sympathy  towards  the  strange 
definiteness  at  her  side. 

"  I  have  thought  so.     But  you  are  not  as  the 


64  BACKWATER 

women  one  meets.  You  have  a  soul  serene  and  in- 
nocent.   With  you  it  should  be  well  with  a  man." 

"  I  don't  know,"  responded  Miriam.  "  Is  he 
telling  me  I  am  a  fool  ?  "  she  thought.  "  It's 
true,  but  no  one  has  the  courage  to  tell  me." 

"  It  is  most  strange.  I  talk  to  you  here  as  I 
will.  It  is  simple  and  fatal  "  ;  the  supporting 
arm  became  a  gentle  encirclement  and  Miriam's 
heart  beat  softly  in  her  ears.  "  I  go  to-morrow 
to  Paris  to  the  branch  of  my  father's  business 
that  is  managed  there  by  my  brother.  And  I  go 
then  to  New  York  to  establish  a  branch  there. 
I  shall  be  away  then,  perhaps  a  year.  Shall  I 
find  you  here  ?  " 

A  quick  crunching  on  the  gravel  pathway  just 
in  front  of  them  made  them  both  hold  their 
breath  to  listen.  Someone  was  standing  on  the 
grass  near  Max's  side  of  the  coffin.  A  match  spat 
and  flared  and  Miriam's  heart  was  shaken  by 
Ted's  new,  eager,  frightened  voice.  "  Aren't 
you  ever  going  to  dance  with  me  again  ?  " 

She  had  seen  the  whiteness  of  his  face  and  his 
cold,  delicate,  upright  figure.  In  spirit  she  had 
leapt  to  her  feet  and  faltered  his  name.  All  the 
world  she  knew  had  fallen  into  newness.  This 
was  certainty.    Ted  would  never  leave  her.    But 


BACKWATER  65 

it  was  Max  who  was  standing  up  and  saying 
richly  in  the  blackness  left  by  the  burnt-out 
match,  "  All  in  good  time,  Burton.  Miss  Miriam 
is  engaged  to  me  for  this  dance."  Her  faint  "  of 
course,  Ted,"  was  drowned  in  the  words  which 
her  partner  sang  after  the  footsteps  retreating 
rapidly  along  the  gravel  path :  "  We're  just 
coming  !  " 

"  I  suppose  they've  begun  the  next  dance,"  she 
said,  rising  decisively  and  brushing  at  her  velvet 
skirt  with  trembling  hands. 

"  Our  dance.    Let  us  go  and  dance  our  dance." 

They  walked  a  little  apart  steadily  along  up 
through  the  kitchen  garden,  their  unmatched 
footsteps  sounding  loudly  upon  the  gravel  be- 
tween remarks  made  by  Max.  Miriam  heard 
them  and  heard  the  voice  of  Max.  But  she  neither 
listened  nor  responded. 

She  began  to  talk  and  laugh  at  random  as  they 
neared  the  lawn  lit  by  the  glaring  uncurtained 
windows. 

Consulting  his  scrutinising  face  as  they  danced 
easily  in  the  as  yet  half-empty  room,  he  humming 
the  waltz  which  swung  with  their  movement,  she 
found  narrow,  glinting  eyes  looking  into  her 
own  ;    strange  eyes  that  knew  all  about  a  big 


6S  BACKWATER 

business  and  were  going  to  Paris  and  New  York. 
His  stranger's  face  was  going  away,  to  be 
washed  and  shaved  innumerable  times,  keeping 
its  assurance  in  strange  places  she  knew  nothing 
about. 

Here,  just  for  these  few  hours,  laughing  at 
Ted.  A  phrase  flashed  through  her  brain,  "  He's 
brought  Ted  to  his  senses."  She  flushed  and 
laughed  vaguely  and  danced  with  a  feeling  of 
tireless  strength  and  gaiety.  She  knew  the  phrase 
was  not  her  own.  It  was  one  Nan  Babington 
could  have  used.  It  excited  her.  It  meant  that 
real  things  were  going  to  happen,  she  could  bear 
herself  proudly  in  the  room.  She  rippled  com- 
placently at  Max.  The  room  was  full  of  whirling 
forms,  swelling  and  shrinking  as  they  crossed  and 
recrossed  the  line  between  the  clear  vision 
rimmed  by  her  glasses  and  the  surrounding  bright 
confusion.  Swift,  rhythmic  movement,  unbroken 
and  unjostled,  told  her  how  well  they  were 
dancing.  She  was  secure,  landed  in  life,  dancing 
carelessly  out  and  out  to  a  life  of  her  own. 

"  I  go  ;  I  see  you  again  in  a  year,"  said  Max 
suddenly,  drawing  up  near  the  door  where  Mrs. 
Henderson  stood  sipping  coffee  with  Sarah  and 
Bennett. 


BACKWATER  67 

"  Where  is  Burton  ?  "  he  asked  in  the  midst  of 
his  thanks  and  leave-taking. 

They  all  hesitated.  Miriam  suddenly  found 
herself  in  the  presence  of  a  tribunal. 

Bennett's  careless  "  Oh,  he's  gone  ;  couldn't 
stay,"  followed  her  as  she  flung  upstairs  to  Meg 
Wedderburn's  empty  room.  Why  had  her 
mother  looked  so  self-conscious  and  Sarah  avoided 
her  eye  .  .  .  standing  there  like  a  little  group  of 
conspirators. 

People  were  always  inventing  things.  "  Bother 
— damnational  silliness,"  she  muttered,  and  began 
rapidly  calculating.  Ted  gone  away.  Little  Ted 
hurt  and  angry.  To-morrow.  Perhaps  he 
wouldn't  come.  If  he  didn't  she  wouldn't  see 
him  before  she  went.  The  quiet  little  bead  of 
ruby  shaded  gas  reproached  her.  Meg's  eyes 
would  be  sad  and  reproachful  in  this  quiet  neat- 
ness. Terror  seized  her.  She  wouldn't  see  him. 
He  had  finished  his  work  at  the  Institution.  It 
was  the  big  Norwich  job  next  week. 


CHAPTER    III 


MIRIAM  propped  "  The  Story  of  Adele  " 
open  against  the  three  Bibles  on  the  dress- 
ing-table. It  would  be  wasteful  to  read  it  up- 
stairs. It  was  the  only  story-book  amongst  the 
rows  of  volumes  which  filled  the  shelves  in  the 
big  schoolroom  and  would  have  to  last  her  for 
tea-time  reading  the  whole  term.  The  "  Fleurs 
de  I'Eloquence  ?  "  Shiny  brown  leather  covered 
with  little  gold  buds  and  tendrils,  fresh  and  new 
although  the  parchment  pages  were  yellow  with 
age.  The  Fleurs  were  so  short  .  .  .  that  curious 
page  signed  "  Froissart  "  with  long  s's,  coming 
to  an  end  just  as  the  picture  of  the  French  count 
was  getting  clear  and  interesting.  That  other 
thing,  "  The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy."  Fascin- 
ating. But  it  would  take  so  much  reading,  on 
and  on  forgetting  everything  ;  all  the  ordinary 
things,  seeing  things  in  some  new  way,  some  way 

that  fascinated  people  for  a  moment  if  you  tried 

68 


BACKWATER  69 

to  talk  about  it  and  then  made  them  very  angry, 
made  them  hate  and  suspect  you.  Impossible 
to  take  it  out  and  have  it  on  the  schoolroom  table 
for  tea-time  reading.  What  had  made  the 
Pernes  begin  allowing  tea-time  reading  ?  Being 
shy  and  finding  it  difficult  to  keep  conversation 
going  with  the  girls  for  so  long  ?  They  never  did 
talk  to  the  girls.  Perhaps  because  they  did  not 
see  through  them  and  understand  them.  North 
London  girls.  So  different  from  the  Fairchild 
family  and  the  sort  of  girls  they  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  when  they  were  young.  Anyhow,  they 
hardly  ever  had  to  talk  to  them.  Not  at  break- 
fast or  dinner-time  when  they  were  all  three 
there  ;  and  at  tea-time  when  there  was  only  one 
of  them,  there  were  always  the  books.  How 
sensible.  On  Sunday  afternoons,  coming  smiHng 
into  the  schoolroom,  one  of  them  each  Sunday — 
perhaps  the  others  were  asleep — reading  aloud  ; 
the  Fairchild  family,  smooth  and  good  and  happy, 
everyone  in  the  book  surrounded  with  a  sort  of 
light,  going  on  and  on  and  on  towards  heaven, 
tea-time  seeming  so  nice  and  mean  and  ordinary 
afterwards- — or  a  book  about  a  place  in  the 
north  of  England  called  Saltcoats,  brine,  and  a 
vicarage  and  miners  ;    the  people  in  the  book 


70  BACKWATER 

horrible,  not  lit  up,  talking  about  things  and 
being  gloomy  and  not  always  knowing  what  to 
do,  never  really  sure  about  Heaven  like  the  Fair- 
child  family,  black  brackish  book.  The  "  Fair- 
child  Family  "  was  golden  and  gleaming. 

"  The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  "  would  not 
be  golden  Hke  "  The  Fairchild  Family  "  .  .  .  "  the 
cart  was  now  come  alongside  a  wood  which  was 
exceedingly  shady  and  beautiful "  ;  "  good  man- 
ners and  civility  make  everybody  lovely  "  ;  but 
it  would  be  round  and  real,  not  just  chilly  and 
moaning  like  "  Saltcoats."  The  title  would  be 
enough  to  keep  one  going  at  tea-time.  An^^ — 
omy  of  Mel — ancholy,  and  the  look  of  the  close- 
printed  pages  and  a  sentence  here  and  there. 
The  Pernes  would  not  believe  she  really  wanted 
it  there  on  the  table.  The  girls  would  stare. 
When  "  The  Story  of  Adele  "  was  finished  she 
would  have  to  find  some  other  book  ;  or  borrow 
one.  Nancie  Wilkie,  sitting  at  tea  with  her  back 
to  the  closed  piano  facing  the  great  bay  of  dark 
green-blinded  window,  reading  "  Nicholas  Nickle- 
by."  Just  the  very  one  of  all  the  Dickens 
volumes  that  would  be  likely  to  come  into  her 
hands.  Impossible  to  borrow  it  when  Nancie 
had  finished  with  it.     Impossible  to  read  a  book 


BACKWATER  71 

with  such  a  title.  "  David  Copperfield  "  was  all 
right ;  and  "  The  Pickwick  Papers."  "  Little 
Dorritt"— "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities  "—"  The 
Old  Curiosity  Shop."  There  was  something  sus- 
picious about  these,  too. 


Adele — the  story  of  Adele.  The  book  had 
hard,  unpleasant  covers  with  some  thin  cottony 
material — bright  lobelia  blue — strained  over  them 
and  fraying  out  at  the  corners.  Over  the  front 
of  the  cover  were  little  garlands  and  festoons  of 
faded  gold,  and  in  the  centre  framed  by  an  oval 
band  of  brighter  gold  was  the  word  Adele,  with 
little  strong  tendrils  on  the  lettering.  There 
was  some  secret  charm  about  the  book.  The 
strong  sunlight  striking  the  window  just  above 
the  coarse  lace  curtains  that  obscured  its  lower 
half,  made  the  gilding  shine  and  seem  to  move — 
a  whole  wild  woodland.  The  coarse  white  toilet- 
cover  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  the  three  Bibles, 
the  little  cheap  mahogany- framed  looking-glass^ 
Nancie  Wilkie's  folding  hand-glass,  the  ugly  gas 
bracket  sticking  out  above  the  mirror,  her  own 
bed  in  the  corner  with  its  coarse  fringed  coverlet, 
the  two  alien  beds  behind  her  in  the  room,  and 


72  BACKWATER 

the  repellant  washstand  in  the  far  corner  became 
friendly  as  the  sun  shone  on  the  decorated  cover 
of  the  blue  and  gold  book. 

She  propped  it  open  again  and  began  tidying 
her  hair.  It  must  be  nearly  tea-time.  A  phrase 
caught  her  eye.  "  The  old  chateau  where  the 
first  years  of  Adele's  life  were  spent  was  situated 
in  the  midst  of  a  high-walled  garden.  Along  one 
side  of  the  chateau  ran  a  terrace  looking  out  over 
a  lovely  expanse  of  flower-beds.  Beyond  was  a 
little  pleasaunce  surrounded  by  a  miniature  wall 
and  threaded  by  little  pathways  lined  with  rose 
trees.  Almost  hidden  in  the  high  wall  was  a  little 
doorway.  When  the  doorway  was  open  you 
could  see  through  into  a  deep  orchard."  The 
first  tea-bell  rang.  The  figure  of  Adele  flitting 
about  in  an  endless  summer  became  again  lines  of 
black  print.  In  a  moment  the  girls  would  come 
rushing  up.  Miriam  closed  the  book  and  turned 
to  the  dazzling  window.  The  sun  blazed  just 
above  the  gap  in  the  avenue  of  poplars.  A  bright 
yellow  pathway  led  up  through  the  green  of  the 
public  cricket  ground,  pierced  the  avenue  of 
poplars  and  disappeared  through  the  further 
greenery  in  a  curve  that  was  the  beginning  of 
its  encirclement  of  the  park  lake.    Coming  slowly 


BACKWATER  73 

along  the  pathway  was  a  little  figure  dressed 
bunchily  in  black.  It  looked  pathetically  small 
and  dingy  in  the  bright  scene.  The  afternoon 
blazed  round  it.  It  was  something  left  over. 
What  was  the  explanation  of  it  ?  As  it  came  near 
it  seemed  to  change.  It  grew  real.  It  was  hurry- 
ing eagerly  along,  quite  indifferent  to  the  after- 
noon glory,  with  little  rolling  steps  that  were 
like  the  uneven  toddling  of  a  child,  and  carrying 
a  large  newspaper  whose  great  sheets,  although 
there  was  no  wind,  balled  out  scarcely  controlled 
by  the  small  hands.  Its  feathered  hat  had  a 
wind-blown  rakish  air.  On  such  a  still  afternoon. 
It  was  thinking  and  coming  along,  thinking  and 
thinking  and  a  little  angry.  What  a  rum  little 
party,  murmured  Miriam,  despising  her  words 
and  admiring  the  wild  thought-filled  little  bundle 
of  dingy  clothes.  Beastly,  to  be  picking  up  that 
low  kind  of  slang — not  real  slang.  Just  North 
London  sneering.  Goo — ^what  a  rum  little  party, 
she  declared  aloud,  flattening  herself  against  the 
window.  Hotly  flushing,  she  recognised  that  she 
had  been  staring  at  Miss  Jenny  Perne  hurrying 
in  to  preside  at  tea. 


74  BACKWATER 

3 

"  We've  been  to  Jones's  this  afternoon,  Miss 
Jenny." 

Each  plate  held  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter  cut 
thickly  all  the  way  across  a  household  loaf,  and  the 
three-pound  jar  of  home-made  plum  jam  belong- 
ing to  Nancie  Wilkie  was  going  the  round  of  the 
table.  It  had  begun  with  Miriam,  who  sat  on 
Miss  Jenny's  right  hand,  and  had  Nancie  for 
neighbour.  She  had  helped  herself  sparingly, 
unable  quite  to  resist  the  enhancement  of  the 
solid  fare,  but  fearing  that  there  would  be  no 
possibility  of  getting  anything  from  home  to 
make  a  return  in  kind.  Things  were  so  bad,  the 
dance  had  cost  so  much.  One  of  Mary's  cakes, 
big  enough  for  five  people,  would  cost  so  much. 
And  there  would  be  the  postage. 

Piling  a  generous  spoonful  on  to  her  own 
thick  slice,  Nancie  coughed  facetiously  and  re- 
peated her  remark  which  had  produced  no  result 
but  a  giggle  from  Charlotte  Stubbs  who  sat 
opposite  to  her. 

"Eh?    Eh?    What?" 

Miss  Jenny  looked  down  the  table  over  the 
top  of  her  newspaper  without  raising  her  head. 


BACKWATER  75 

Her  pince-nez  were  perched  so  that  one  eye  ap- 
peared looking  through  its  proper  circle,  the 
other  glared  unprotected  just  above  a  rim  of 
glass. 

"  Miss  Haddie  took  us  to  Jones's  this  after- 
noon," said  Nancie  almost  voicelessly.  Miriam 
glanced  at  the  too  familiar  sight  of  Nancie's 
small  eyes  vanishing  to  malicious  points.  She 
was  sitting  as  usual  very  solid  and  upright  in  her 
chair,  with  her  long  cheeks  pink  flushed  and  her 
fine  nose  white  and  cool  and  twitching,  her  yellow 
hair  standing  strongly  back  from  her  large  white 
brow.  She  stabbed  keenly  in  her  direction  as 
Miriam  glanced,  and  Miriam  turned  and  applied 
herself  to  her  bread  and  jam.  If  she  did  not  eat 
she  would  not  get  more  than  two  slices  from  the 
piled  dishes  before  the  others  had  consumed  four 
and  live  apiece  and  brought  tea  to  an  end. 

"  Eh  ?  what  for  ?  Why  are  ye  laughing, 
Nancie  ? " 

"  I'm  not  laughing,  Miss  Jenny."  Nancie's 
firm  lips  curved  away  from  her  large  faultless 
teeth.  "  I'm  only  smiling  and  telling  you  about 
our  visit  to  Jones's." 

Miss  Jenny's  newspaper  was  lowered  and  her 
pince-nez  removed. 


id  BACKWATER 

"  Eh  ?  What  d'ye  say  ?  Nonsense,  Nancie, 
you  know  you  were  laughing.  Why  do  you  say 
you  weren't  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?     Eh  ? " 

"  I'm  sorry,  Miss  Jennie.  Something  tickled 
me. 

"  Yes.  Don't  be  nonsensical.  D'ye  see  ?  It's 
nonsensical  to  say  no  when  you  mean  yes.  D'ye 
understand  what  I  mean,  Nancie  ?  It's  bad 
manners."  Hitching  on  her  pince-nez,  Miss 
Jenny  returned  to  her  paper. 

Miriam  gave  herself  up  to  the  luxury  of  reading 
Adele  to  the  accompaniment  of  bread  and  jam. 
She  would  not  hurry  over  her  bread  and  jam. 
As  well  not  have  it.  She  would  sacrifice  her 
chance  of  a  third  slice.  She  reflected  that  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  if  she  could  decide  never 
to  have  more  than  two  slices,  and  have  them  in 
peace.  Then  she  could  thoroughly  enjoy  her 
reading.  But  she  was  always  so  hungry.  At 
home  she  could  not  have  eaten  thick  bread  and 
butter.  But  here  every  slice  seemed  better  than 
the  last.  When  she  began  at  the  hard  thick  edge 
there  always  seemed  to  be  tender  places  on  her 
gums,  her  three  hollow  teeth  were  uneasy  and 
she  had  to  get  through  worrying  thoughts  about 
ihem — they  would  get  worse  as  the  years  went  by. 


BACKWATER  ']'] 

and  the  little  places  in  the  front  would  grow  big 
and  painful  and  disfiguring.  After  the  first  few 
mouthfuls  of  solid  bread  a  sort  of  padding 
seemed  to  take  place  and  she  could  go  on  forgetful. 

"  They'd  got,"  said  Trixie  Sanderson  in  a 
velvety  tone,  "  they'd  got  some  of  their  Christ- 
mas things  out,  Miss  Jenny."  She  cleared  her 
throat  shrilly  on  the  last  word  and  toned  off  the 
sound  with  a  sigh.  Inaudible  laughter  went 
round  the  table,  stopping  at  Miriam,  who  glanced 
fascinated  across  at  Trixie.  Trixie  sat  in  her  best 
dress,  a  loosely  made  brown  velveteen  with  a 
deep  lace  collar  round  her  soft  brown  neck.  Her 
neck  and  her  delicate  pale  face  were  shaded  by 
lively  silky  brown  curls.  She  held  her  small  head 
sideways  from  her  book  with  a  questioning  air. 
One  of  her  wicked  swift  brown  eyes  was  covered 
serenely  with  its  thin  lid. 

She  uttered  a  second  gentle  sigh  and  once 
more  cleared  her  throat,  accompanying  the  sound 
with  a  rapid  fluttering  of  the  lowered  lid. 

Miriam  condemned  her,  flouting  the  single  eye 
which  tried  to  search  her,  hating  the  sudden, 
sharp  dimpling  which  came  high  up  almost  under 
Trixie's  cheek  bones  in  answer  to  her  own  ex- 
pression. 


78  BACKWATER 

"  Miss  Jenny,"  breathed  Trixie  in  a  high  tone, 
twirling  one  end  of  the  bow  of  black  ribbon 
crowning  her  head. 

Beadie  Fetherwell,  at  the  far  end  of  the  table 
opposite  the  tea-tray,  giggled  aloud. 

"  Eh  ?  What  ?  Did  somebody  speak  ?  "  said 
Miss  Jenny,  looking  up  with  a  smile.  "  Are  ye 
getting  on  with  yer  teas  ?  Are  ye  ready  for 
second  cups  ?  " 

"  Beadie  spoke,"  murmured  Trixie,  glancing 
at  Beadie  whose  neat  china  doll's  face  was  half 
hidden  between  her  cup  and  the  protruding  edge 
of  her  thatch  of  tight  gold  curls. 

Miriam  disgustedly  watched  Beadie  prolong 
the  irritating  comedy  by  choking  over  her  tea. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  the  whole  incident 
was  made  clear  to  Miss  Jenny.  Reading  was  sus- 
pended. Everyone  watched  while  Charlotte 
Stubbs,  going  carefully  backwards,  came  to  the 
end  at  last  of  Miss  Jenny's  questions,  and  when 
Miss  Jenny  rapidly  adjudicating — well !  you're  all 
very  naughty  children.  I  can't  think  what's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  Eh  ?  Ye  shouldn't  do  it.  I 
can't  think  what  possesses  you.  What  is  it,  eh  ? 
Ye  shouldn't  do  it.  D'you  see  ? — and  having 
dispensed  the  second  allowance  of  tea  with  small 


BACKWATER  79 

hesitating  preoccupied  hands  returned  finally  to 
her  newspaper,  it  was  Charlotte  who  sat  looking 
guilty.  Miriam  stole  a  glance  at  the  breadth  of 
her  broad  flushed  face,  at  its  broadest  as  she  hung 
over  her  book.  Her  broad  flat  nose  shone  with 
her  tea-drinking,  and  her  shock  of  coarse  brown- 
gold  hair,  flatly  brushed  on  the  top,  stuck  out 
bushily  on  either  side,  its  edges  lit  by  the  after- 
noon glow  from  the  garden  behind  her.  The 
others  were  unmoved.  Trixie  sat  reading,  the 
muscles  controlling  her  high  dimples  still  faintly 
active.  She  and  Nancie  and  Beadie,  whose  opaque 
blue  eyes  fixed  the  table  just  ahead  of  her  book 
with  their  usual  half-squinting  stare,  had  entered 
on  their  final  competition  for  the  last  few  slices. 
Miriam  returned  to  her  book.  The  story  of 
Adele  had  moved  on  through  several  unassimil- 
ated  pages.  "  My  child,"  she  read,  "  it  is  im- 
portant to  remember  " — she  glanced  on  gathering 
a  picture  of  a  woman  walking  with  Adele  along 
the  magic  terrace,  talking — words  and  phrases 
that  fretted  dismally  at  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 
Examining  later  chapters  she  found  conversa- 
tions, discussions,  situations,  arguments,  "  fusses  " 
— all  about  nothing.  She  turned  back  to  the 
early  passage  of  description  and  caught  the  glow 


8o  BACKWATER 

once  more.  But  this  time  it  was  overshadowed 
by  the  promise  of  those  talking  women.  That 
was  all  there  was.  She  had  finished  the  story  of 
Adele. 

A  resounding  slam  came  up  from  the  kitchen. 

"  Poor  cook — another  tooth,"  sighed  Trixie. 

Smothering  a  convulsion,  Miriam  sat  dumb. 
Her  thwarted  expectations  ranged  forth  beyond 
control,  feeling  swiftly  and  cruelly  about  for 
succour  where  she  had  learned  there  was  none. 
.  .  .  Nancie,  her  parents  abroad,  her  aunt's 
house  at  Cromer,  with  a  shrubbery,  the  cousin 
from  South  Africa  coming  home  to  Cromer, 
taking  her  out  in  a  dog-cart,  telling  her  she  was 
his  guiding  star,  going  back  to  South  Africa  ; 
everything  Nancie  said  and  did,  even  her  careful 
hair-brushing  and  her  energetic  upright  walk, 
her  positive  brave  way  of  entering  a  room,  coming 
out  through  those  malicious  pin-points — things 
she  said  about  the  Misses  Perne  and  the  girls, 
things  she  whispered  and  laughed,  Httle  rhymes 
she  sang  with  her  unbearable  laugh. 

.  .  .  Beadie  still  shaking  at  intervals  in  silent 
servile  glancing  laughter,  her  stepmother,  her 
little  half-brother  who  had  fits,  her  holidays  at 
Margate,  "  you'd  look  neat,  on  the  seat,  of  a 


BACKWATER  8i 

bicyka  made  for  two  " — Beadie  brought  Miriam 
the  utmost  sense  of  imprisonment  within  the 
strange  influence  that  had  threatened  her  when 
she  first  came  to  Banbury  Park.  Beadie  was  in 
it,  was  an  unquestioning  part  of  it.  She  felt  that 
she  could  in  some  way,  in  some  one  tint  or  tone, 
realise  the  whole  fabric  of  Beadie's  life  on  and 
on  to  the  end,  no  matter  what  should  happen  to 
her.  But  she  turned  from  the  attempt — any 
effort  at  full  realisation  threatened  complete 
despair.  Trixie  too,  with  a  home  just  opposite 
the  Banbury  Empire.  .  .  .  Miriam  sHd  over  this 
link  in  her  rapid  reflections — a  brother  named 
Julian  who  took  instantaneous  photographs  of 
girls,  numbers  and  numbers  of  girls,  and  was 
sometimes  "  tight."  .  .  . 

Charlotte.  Charlotte  carried  about  a  faint 
suggestion  of  relief.  Miriam  fled  to  her  as  she 
sat  with  the  garden  light  on  her  hair,  her  linger- 
ing flush  of  distress  rekindled  by  her  amusement, 
her  protective  responsible  smile  beaming  out 
through  the  endless  blue  of  her  eyes.  Behind 
her  painstaking  life  at  the  school  was  a  country 
home,  a  farm  somewhere  far  away.  Of  course  it 
was  dreadful  for  her  to  be  a  farmer's  daughter. 
She  evidently  knew  it  herself  and  said  very  little 


82  BACKWATER 

about  it.  But  her  large  red  hands,  so  strange 
handling  school-books,  were  comforting ;  and 
her  hoUand  apron  with  its  bib  under  the  fresh 
colouring  of  her  face — do  you  like  butter  ?  A 
buttercup  under  your  chin — brought  to  Miriam 
a  picture  of  the  farm,  white  amidst  bright  green- 
ery, with  a  dairy  and  morning  cock-crow  and 
creamy  white  sheep  on  a  hillside.  It  was  all  there 
with  her  as  she  sat  at  table  reading  "  The  Lamp- 
lighter." The  sound  of  her  broad  husky  voice 
explaining  to  Miss  Jenny  had  been  full  of  it. 
But  it  was  all  past.  She  too  had  come  to  Ban- 
bury Park.  She  did  not  seem  to  mind  Banbury 
Park.  She  was  to  study  hard  and  be  a 
governess.  She  evidently  thought  she  was  having 
a  great  chance — she  was  fifteen  and  quite  "  un- 
cultured." How  could  she  be  turned  into  a 
governess  ?  A  sort  of  nursery  governess,  for 
farms,  perhaps.  But  farms  did  not  want  books 
and  worry.  Miriam  wanted  to  put  her  back 
nto  her  farm,  and  sometimes  her  thoughts 
wearily  brushed  the  idea  of  going  with  her. 
Perhaps,  though,  she  had  come  away  because  her 
father  could  not  keep  her  ?  The  little  problem 
hung  about  her  as  she  sat  sweetly  there,  common 
and  good   and   strong.     The  golden  light   that 


BACKWATER  83 

seemed  to  belong  specially  to  her  came  from  a 
London  garden,  an  unreal  North  London  garden. 
Resounding  in  its  little  spaces  were  the  blatter- 
ings  and  shouts  of  the  deaf  and  dumb  next  door. 

4 

Miss  Jenny  left  "  The  Standard  "  with  Miriam 
after  tea,  stopping  suddenly  as  she  made  her 
uncertain  way  from  the  tea-table  to  the  door  and 
saying  absently,  "  Eh,  you'd  better  read  this, 
my  dear.  There's  a  leader  on  the  Education 
Commission.  Would  ye  like  to  ?  Yes,  I  think 
you'd  better."  Miriam  accepted  the  large  sheets 
with  hesitating  expressions  of  thanks,  wondering 
rather  fearfully  what  a  leader  might  be  and  where 
she  should  find  it.  She  knew  the  word.  Her 
mother  read  "  the  leaders  "  in  the  evening — 
''  excellent  leader  "  she  sometimes  said,  and  her 
father  would  put  down  his  volume  of  "  Proceed- 
ings of  the  British  Association,"  or  Herbert 
Spencer's  "  First  Principles,"  and  condescend- 
ingly agree.  But  any  discussion  generally  ended 
in  his  warning  her  not  to  believe  a  thing  because 
she  saw  it  in  print,  and  a  reminder  that  before 
she  married  she  had  thought  that  everything  she 
saw  in  print  was  true,  and  quite  often  he  would 


84  BACKWATER 

go  on  to  general  remarks  about  the  gullibility  of 
women,  bringing  in  the  story  of  the  two  large 
long-necked  pearly  transparent  drawing-room 
vases  with  stems  and  soft  masses  of  roses  and 
leaves  painted  on  their  sides  that  she  had  given 
too  much  for  at  the  door  to  a  man  who  said 
they  were  Italian.  Brummagem,  Brummagem,  he 
would  end,  mouthing  the  word  and  turning  back 
to  his  book  with  the  neighing  laugh  that  made 
Miriam  turn  to  the  imagined  picture  of  her  mother 
in  the  first  year  of  her  married  life,  standing  in 
the  sunlight  at  the  back  door  of  the  Babington 
house,  vdth  the  varnished  coach-house  door  on 
her  right  and  the  cucumber  frames  in  front  of 
her  sloping  up  towards  the  bean-rows  that  began 
the  kitchen  garden  ;  with  her  little  scallopped 
bodice,  her  hooped  skirt,  her  hair  bunched  in 
curls  up  on  her  high  pad  and  falling  round  her 
neck,  looking  at  the  jugs  with  grave  dark  eyes. 
And  that  neighing  laugh  had  come  again  and 
again  all  through  the  years  until  she  sat  meekly, 
flushed  and  suffering  under  the  fierce  gaslight, 
feeling  every  night  of  her  life  winter  and  summer 
as  if  the  ceiling  were  coming  down  on  her  head, 
and  read  "  leaders  "  cautiously,  and  knew  when 
they  were  written   in  *'  a  fine  chaste   dignified 


BACKWATER  85 

style."  But  that  was  "The  Times."  "The 
Standard"  was  a  penny  rag  and  probably  not 
worth  considering  at  all.  In  any  case  she  would 
not  read  it  at  evening  study.  She  had  never  had 
a  newspaper  in  her  hand  before  as  far  as  she  could 
remember.  The  girls  would  see  that  she  did  not 
know  how  to  read  it,  and  it  would  be  snubby 
towards  them  to  sit  there  as  if  she  were  a  Miss 
Perne,  scrumpling  a  great  paper  while  they  sat 
with  their  books.  So  she  read  her  text-books,  a 
page  of  Saxon  Kings  with  a  ten-line  summary  of 
each  reign,  a  list  of  six  English  counties  with  their 
capitals  and  the  rivers  the  capitals  stood  on  and 
the  principal  industries  of  each  town,  devising 
ways  of  remembering  the  lists  and  went  on  to 
"  Bell's  Standard  Elocutionist."  She  had  found 
the  book  amongst  the  school  books  on  the  school- 
room shelves.  It  was  a  "  standard  "  book  and 
must  therefore  be  about  something  she  ought  to 
know  something  about  if  she  were  to  hold  her 
own  in  this  North  London  world.  There  had 
been  no  "  standard  "  books  at  school  and  the  word 
offended  her.  It  suggested  fixed  agreement  about 
the  things  people  ought  to  know  and  that  she 
felt  sure  must  be  wrong,  and  not  only  wrong  but 
"  common  "...  standard  readers  .  .  .  standard 


86  BACKWATER 

pianoforte  tutors.  She  had  learned  to  read 
in  "  Reading  without  Tears,"  and  gone  on  to 
"  Classical  Poems  and  Prose  for  the  Young,"  her 
arithmetic  book  instead  of  being  a  thin  cold 
paper-covered  thing  called  Standard  I,  had  been 
a  pleasant  green  volume  called  "  Barnard  Smith," 
that  began  at  the  beginning  and  went  on  to 
compound  fractions  and  stocks.  There  was  no 
Morris's  Grammar  at  Banbury  Park,  no  Wetherell 
or  English  Accidence,  no  bits  from  "  Piers  Plow- 
man "  and  pages  of  scraps  of  words  with  the  way 
they  changed  in  different  languages  and  quota- 
tions, just  sentences  that  had  made  her  long  for 
more  ..."  up-clomb  "...  "the mist  up-clomb." 
She  opened  "  Bell's  Standard  Elocutionist "  appre- 
hensively, her  mind  working  on  possible  meanings 
for  elocutionist.  She  thought  of  ventriloquist 
and  wondered  dismally  whether  it  was  a  book  of 
conjuring  tricks.  It  was  poems,  poems  and  prose, 
all  mixed  up  together  anyhow.  The  room  was 
very  still,  the  girls  all  sitting  reading  with  their 
back  to  the  table  so  that  nobody  "  poked."  She 
could  not  go  on  vaguely  fluttering  pages,  so  she 
read  a  solid-looking  poem  that  was  not  divided 
up  into  verses. 

"  Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Urbane 


BACKWATER  87 

And  Valmond  Emperor  of  Allemaine,  Apparelled 
in  magnificent  attire,  With  retinue  of  many  a 
knight  and  squire,  On  St.  John's  eve,  at  vespers, 
proudly  sat  And  heard  the  priests  chant  the 
Magnificat."  Should  she  go  on  ?  It  was  like  the 
pieces  in  Scott's  novels,  the  best  bits,  before  the 
characters  began  to  talk. 

..."  and  bay  the  moon  than  such  a  Roman 
and  bay  the  moon  than  such  a  Roman,"  muttered 
Nancie  rapidly,  swinging  her  feet.  It  would  not 
be  fair  to  read  a  thing  that  would  take  her  right 
away  and  not  teach  her  anything  whilst  the  girls 
were  learning  their  things  for  Monday.  She 
hesitated  and  turned  a  page.  The  poem,  she 
saw,  soon  began  to  break  up  into  sentences  with 
quotation  signs  ;  somebody  making  a  to-do. 
Turning  several  pages  at  once,  she  caught  sight 
of  the  word  Hanover.  "  Hamelin  Town's  in 
Brunswick,  by  famous  Hanover  city."  That  was 
irresistible.  But  she  must  read  it  one  day  away 
from  the  gassy  room  and  the  pressure  of  the 
girls.  The  lines  were  magic  ;  but  the  rush  that 
took  her  to  the  German  town,  the  sight  and 
smell  and  sound  of  it,  the  pointed  houses,  wood 
fires,  the  burgers,  had  made  her  cheeks  flare  and 
thrown  her  out  of  the  proper  teacher's  frame  of 


88  BACKWATER 

mind.  She  wanted  to  stand  up  and  pull  up  the 
blinds  hiding  the  garden  and  shout  the  poem 
aloud  to  the  girls.  They  would  stare  and  giggle 
and  think  she  had  gone  mad.  "  The  mountain 
has  gone  mad,"  Nancie  would  mutter.  "There 
is  a  mountain  in  Banbury  Park,  covered  over  with 
yellow  bark,"  Nancie's  description  of  herself. 
That  was  how  the  girls  saw  her  stiff  hair — and 
they  thought  she  was  "  about  forty."  Well,  it 
was  true.  She  was,  practically.  She  went  on 
holding  Bell  up  before  her  face,  open  at  a  page 
of  prose,  and  stared  at  the  keyboard  of  the  piano 
just  beyond  her  crossed  knees.  It  aroused  the 
sight  and  sense  of  the  strangely  moving  hands  of 
the  various  girls  whose  afternoon  practice  it  was 
her  business  to  superintend,  their  intent  faces, 
the  pages  of  bad  unclassical  music,  things  with 
horrible  names,  by  English  composers,  the  use- 
lessness  of  the  hours  and  terms  and  years  of 
practice. 

5 
Presently  the  bread  and  butter  and  milk  came 
up  for  the  girls,  and  then  there  was  prayers — the 
three  servants  lined  up  in  front  of  the  book- 
shelves ;  cook  wheezing  heavily,  tall  and  thin 
and  bent,  with  a  sloping  mob  cap  and  a  thin  old 


BACKWATER  89 

brown  face  with  a  forehead  that  was  like  a  but- 
tress of  shiny  bone  and  startHng  dark  eyes  that 
protruded  so  that  they  could  be  seen  even  when 
she  sat  looking  down  into  her  lap  ;  and  Flora 
the  parlourmaid,  short  and  plump  and  brown 
with  an  expression  of  perfectly  serene  despair, 
this  was  part  of  Miriam's  daily  bread ;  and  Annie 
the  housemaid,  raw  pink  and  gold  and  grinning 
slyly  at  the  girls — Miss  Perne,  sitting  at  the  head 
of  the  table  with  the  shabby  family  Bible  and 
the  book  of  family  prayers,  Miss  Jenny  and  Miss 
Haddie  one  on  each  side  of  the  fire-place.  Miss 
Jenny's  feet  hardly  reaching  the  floor  as  she  sat 
bunched  on  a  high  schoolroom  chair.  Miss  Haddie 
in  her  cold  slate-grey  dress  sitting  back  with  her 
thin  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  grey  face  bent 
devotionally  so  that  her  chin  rested  on  her  thin 
chest,  her  eyes  darting  from  the  servants  to  the 
girls  who  sat  in  their  places  round  the  table 
during  the  time  it  took  Miss  Perne  to  read  a 
short  psalm.  Miriam  tried  to  cast  down  her 
eyes  and  close  her  ears.  All  that  went  on  during 
that  short  interval  left  her  equally  excluded  from 
either  party.  She  could  not  sit  gazing  at  Flora, 
and  Miss  Perne's  polite  unvarying  tone  brought 
her  no  comfort.   She  sometimes  thought  longingly 


90  BACKWATER 

of  prayers  in  Germany,  the  big  quiet  saal  with 
its  high  windows,  its  great  dark  doors,  its  annexe 
of  wooden  summer-room,  Fraulein's  clear,  brood- 
ing undertone,  the  pensive  calm  of  the  German 
girls ;  the  strange  mass  of  fresh  melodious  sound 
as  they  all  sang  together.  Here  there  seemed 
to  be  everything  to  encourage  and  nothing  what- 
ever to  check  the  sudden  murmur,  the  lightning 
swift  gesture  of  Nancie  or  Trixie. 

The  moment  Miss  Perne  had  finished  her 
psalm  they  all  swung  round  on  to  their  knees. 
Miriam  pressed  her  elbows  against  the  cane  seat 
of  her  chair  and  wondered  what  she  should  say  to 
Miss  Jenny  at  supper  about  the  newspaper,  while 
Miss  Perne  decorously  prayed  that  they  might 
all  be  fed  with  the  sincere  milk  of  the  Word  and 
grow  thereby. 

After  the  Lord's  Prayer,  a  unison  of  breathy 
mutterings  against  closed  fingers,  they  all  rose. 
Then  the  servants  filed  out  of  the  room  followed 
by  the  Misses  Perne.  Miss  Perne  stopped  in  the 
doorway  to  shake  hands  with  the  girls  on  their 
way  to  bed  before  joining  her  sisters  in  the  little 
sitting-room  across  the  hall.  One  of  the  servants 
reappeared  almost  at  once  with  a  tray,  distributed 
its  contents  at  the  fire-place  end  of  the  long 


BACKWATER  91 

table  and  rang  the  little  bell  in  the  hall  on  her 
way  back  to  the  kitchen.  The  Misses  Feme 
filed  back  across  the  hall. 

6 

"  Eh,  Deborah,  are  ye  sure  ?  "  said  Miss  Jenny, 
getting  into  her  chair  at  Miss  Perne's  right  hand. 

Perhaps  the  newspaper  would  not  be  mentioned 
after  all.  If  it  were  she  would  simply  say  she 
had  been  preparing  for  Monday  and  was  going 
to  read  it  after  supper.  Anyhow  there  was  never 
any  threat  with  the  Pernes  of  anything  she  would 
not  be  able  to  deal  with.  She  glanced  to  see  what 
there  was  to  eat,  and  then,  feeling  Miss  Haddie's 
eye  from  across  the  table,  assumed  an  air  of  in- 
terested abstraction  to  cover  her  disappointment. 
Cold  white  blancmange  in  a  round  dish  garnished 
with  prunes,  bread  and  butter,  a  square  of  cream 
cheese  on  a  green-edged  dessert  plate,  a  box  of 
plain  biscuits,  the  tall  bottle  of  lime  juice  and  the 
red  glass  jug  of  water.  Nothing  really  sweet  and 
nice — the  blancmange  would  be  flavoured  with 
laurel — prussic  acid — and  the  prunes  would  be 
sweet  in  the  wrong  sort  of  way — wholesome, 
just  sweet  fruit.  Cheese — how  could  people  eat 
cheese  ? 


92  BACKWATER 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  tell  you  only  what  I  saw 
with  my  own  eyes — Polly  Allen  and  Eunice 
Dupont  running  about  in  the  park  without  their 
hats." 

"  Ech,"  syphoned  Miss  Haddie,  drawing  her 
delicate  green-grey  eyebrows  sharply  towards 
the  deep  line  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead. 
She  did  not  look  up  but  sat  frowning  sourly  into 
her  bowl  of  bread  and  milk,  ladling  and  pouring 
the  milk  from  the  spoon. 

Miriam  kept  a  nervous  eye  on  her  acid  pre- 
occupation. No  one  had  seen  the  behaviour  of 
her  own  face,  how  one  corner  of  her  mouth  had 
shot  up  so  sharply  as  to  bring  the  feeling  of  a 
deeply  denting  dimple  in  her  cheek.  She  sat 
regulating  her  breathing  and  carefully  extracting 
the  stone  from  a  prune, 

"  Did  ye  speak  to  them  ?  "  asked  Miss  Jenny, 
fixing  her  tall  sister  over  her  pince-nez. 

Miss  Perne  sat  smilingly  upright,  her  black 
eyes  blinking  rapidly  at  the  far-oif  bookshelves. 

"  I  did  not  speak  to  them " 

"  Eh,  Deborah,  why  not  ?  "  scolded  Miss  Jenny 
as  Miss  Perne  drew  breath. 

"  I  did  7iot  speak  to  them,"  went  on  Miss  De- 
borah, beaming  delightedly  at  the  bookcase,  "  for 


BACKWATER  93 

the  very  good  reason  that  I  was  not  sufficiently- 
near  to  them.  I  was  walking  upon  the  asphalt 
pathway  surrounding  the  lake  and  had  just  be- 
come engaged  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Brink- 
well,  who  had  stopped  me  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  me  further  details  with  regard  to  Con- 
stance's prolonged  absence  from  school,  when  I 
saw  Polly  and  Eunice  apparently  chasing  one 
another  across  the  recreation  ground  in  the  con- 
dition I  have  described  to  you." 

Miriam,  who  had  felt  Miss  Haddie's  scorn- 
filled  eyes  playing  watchfully  over  her,  sat  press- 
ing the  sharp  edge  of  her  high  heel  into  her 
ankle. 

"  Eh,  my  dear,  what  a  pity  you  couldn't  speak 
to  them.  They've  no  business  at  all  in  the 
recreation  ground  where  the  rough  boys  go." 

"  Well,  I  have  described  to  you  the  circum- 
stances, my  dear,  and  the  impossibility  of  my 
undertaking  any  kind  of  intervention." 

"  Eh,  well,  Deborah  my  dear,  I  think  I  should 
have  done  something.  Don't  you  think  you 
ought  ?  Eh  ?  Called  someone  perhaps — eh  ? — 
or  managed  to  get  at  the  gels  in  some  way — dear, 
dear,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  You  see  it  is  hardly 
of  any  use  to  speak  to  them  afterwards.     You 


94  BACKWATER 

want  to  catch  them  red-handed  and  make  them 
feel  ashamed  of  themselves." 

"  I  am  fully  prepared  to  admit,  my  dear  Jenny, 
the  justice  of  all  that  you  say.  But  I  can  only 
repeat  that  in  the  circumstances  in  which  I  found 
myself  I  was  entirely  unable  to  exercise  any 
control  whatever  upon  the  doings  of  the  gels. 
They  were  running ;  and  long  before  I  was 
free  from  Mrs.  Brinkwell  they  were  out  of 
sight." 

Miss  Perne  spoke  in  a  clear,  high,  narrative 
tone  that  seemed  each  moment  on  the  point  of 
delighted  laughter,  her  delicate  head  held  high, 
her  finely  wrinkled  face  puckering  with  restrained 
pleasure.  Miriam  saw  vividly  the  picture  in  the 
park,  the  dreadful,  mean,  grubby  lake,  the  sad 
asphalt  pathway  all  round  it,  the  shabby  London 
greenery,  the  October  wind  rushing  through  it. 
Miss  Perne's  high  stylish  arrowy  figure  fluttered 
by  the  wind,  swaying  in  her  response  to  Mrs. 
Brinkwell's  story,  the  dreadful  asphalt  playground 
away  to  the  left,  its  gaunt  swings  and  bars — 
gallows.  .  .  .  Ingoldsby — the  girls  rushing  across 
it,  and  held  herself  sternly  back  from  a  vision  of 
Miss  Perne  chasing  the  delinquents  down  the 
wind.     Why   did   Miss   Perne   speak   so   trium- 


BACKWATER  95 

phantly  ?  As  much  as  to  say  There,  my  dear 
Jenny,  there's  a  problem  you  can't  answer.  She 
enjoyed  telHng  the  tale  and  was  not  really  upset 
about  the  girls.  She  spoke  exactly  as  if  she 
were  reading  aloud  from  "  Robinson  Crusoe." 
Miss  Haddie  was  watching  again,  flashing  her 
eyes  about  as  she  gently  spooned  up  her  bread 
and  milk.  Miriam  wished  she  knew  whether 
Miss  Haddie  knew  how  difficult  it  was  to  listen 
gravely.  She  was  evidently  angry  and  disgusted. 
But  still  she  could  watch. 

"  Did  ye  go  that  way  at  all  afterwards — the 
way  the  girls  went  ?  " 

"  I  did  not,"  beamed  Miss  Perne,  turning  to 
Miss  Jenny  as  if  waiting  for  a  judgment. 

"  Well,  eh,  I'm  sure,  really,  it's  most  difiikilt. 
What  is  one  to  do  with  these  gels  ?  Now,  Miriam, 
here's  something  for  you  to  exercise  your  wits 
upon.    What  would  ye  do,  eh  ?  " 

Miriam  hesitated.  Memories  kept  her  dumb. 
Of  course  she  had  never  rushed  about  in  a  com- 
mon park  where  rough  boys  came.  At  the  same 
time — if  the  girls  wanted  to  rush  about  and 
scream  and  wear  no  hats  nobody  had  any  right 
to  interfere  with  them  .  .  .  they  ought  to  be 
suppressed  though,  North  London  girls,  capable 


96  BACKWATER 

of  anything  in  the  way  of  horridness  .  .  .  the 
Pernes  did  not  seem  to  see  how  horrid  the  girls 
were  in  themselves,  common  and  knowing  and 
horrid.  "  Dear,  funny  little  O.M.'s  "...  they 
were  something  much  more  than  that.  They 
were  wrong  about  the  hats,  but  it  was  good, 
heavenly  to  be  here  like  this  with  them.  She 
turned  to  Miss  Jenny,  her  mind  in  a  warm 
confusion,  and  smiled  into  the  little  red  face 
peering  delicately  from  out  its  disorderly  Gorgon 
loops. 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Jenny,"  said  Miss  Haddie's  soft 
hollow  voice,  "  how  should  the  child  judge  ?  " 

Miriam's  heart  leapt.  She  smiled  inanely  and 
eagerly  accepted  a  second  helping  of  blancmange 
suddenly  proffered  by  Miss  Perne,  who  was 
drawing  little  panting  breaths  and  blinking 
sharply  at  her. 

"  Nonsense,  Haddie.  Come  along,  my  dear, 
it's  a  chance  for  you.    Come  along." 

"  Tomboys,"  said  Miss  Haddie  indignantly. 

Miriam  drew  a  breath.  It  was  wrong,  they 
were  not  tomboys — she  knew  they  had  not  run 
like  tomboys — they  had  scuttled,  she  was  sure — 
horrid  girls,  that  was  what  they  were,  nothing 


BACKWATER  97 

the  Pernes  could  understand.  The  Pernes  ought 
not  to  be  bothered  with  them. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  feeling  a  sudden  security, 
"  are  we  responsible  for  them  out  of  school 
hours  ?  " 

Miss  Haddie's  eyebrows  moved  nervously,  and 
Miss  Perne's  smile  turned  to  a  dubious  mouthing. 

"  Eh,  there  you  are.  D'ye  see,  Deborah. 
That's  it.  That's  the  crucial  point.  Are  we 
responsible  ?  I'm  sure  I  can't  say.  That  places 
the  whole  difficulty  in  a  nutshell.  Here  are  these 
gels,  not  even  day  boarders.  How  far  can  we 
control  their  general  behaviour  ?  Eh  ?  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know." 

"  My  dear  Jenny,"  said  Miss  Haddie  quickly, 
her  hollow  voice  reverberating  as  if  she  were 
using  a  gargle,  "  it's  quite  obvious  that  we  can't 
have  gels  known  to  belong  to  the  school  running 
about  in  the  park  with  nothing  on." 

"  I  agree,  my  dear  Haddie.  But,  as  Jenny 
says,  how  are  we  to  prevent  such  conduct  ?  " 

"  Don't  let  us  lose  sight  of  Miriam's  point. 
Are  we  responsible  for  their  play-times  ?  I  sup- 
pose we're  not^  you  know,  Deborah,  really  after 
all.  Not  directly,  perhaps.  But  sheerly  we  are 
indirectly  responsible.     Sheerly.     We  ought  to 


98  BACKWATER 

be  able  to  make  it  impossible  for  them  to  carry 
on  in  this  unseemly  fashion." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Miss  Deborah  eagerly, 
"  sheerly." 

"  Is  it  education  ?  "  suggested  Miriam. 

"  That's  it,  my  dear.  It  is  education.  That's 
what's  wanted.  That's  what  these  gels  want. 
I  don't  know,  though.  All  this  talk  of  education. 
It  ought  to  be  the  thing.  And  yet  look  at  these 
two  gels.  Both  of  them  from  Miss  Cass's. 
There's  her  school  now.  Famous  all  over  London. 
Three  hundred  gels.  We've  had  several  here. 
And  they've  all  had  that  objectionable  noisy 
tone.  Eh,  Deborah  ?  I  don't  know.  How  is  it 
to  be  accounted  for  ?    Eh  ?  " 

"  I've  never  heard  of  Miss  Cass's,"  said  Miriam. 

"  My  dear  child  !  It's  not  possible  !  D'ye 
mean  to  say  ye  don't  know  Miss  Cass's  high 
school  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  it's  a  high  school,  of  course.'''' 

All  three  ladies  waited,  with  their  eyes  on  her, 
making  a  chorus  of  inarticulate  sounds. 

"  Oh  well,  high  schools  are  simply  fearful." 

Miriam  glowed  in  a  tide  of  gentle  cackling 
laughter. 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  think  there's  something 


BACKWATER  99 

in  it,"  giggled  Miss  Jenny  softly.  "  It's  the 
number  perhaps.  That's  what  I  always  say, 
Deborah.  Treating  the  gels  like  soldiers.  Like 
a  regiment.  D'ye  see  ?  No  individual  study  of 
the  gels'  characters " 

"  Well.  However  that  may  be,  I  am  sure  of 
one  thing.  I  am  sure  that  on  Monday  Polly  and 
Eunice  must  be  reprimanded.  Severely  repri- 
manded." 

"  Yes.  I  suppose  they  must.  They're  nice 
gels  at  heart,  you  know.  Both  of  them.  That's 
the  worst  of  it.  Well,  I  hardly  mean  that.  Only 
so  often  the  naughty  gels  are  so  thoroughly — 
well — nice,  likable  at  bottom,  ye  know,  eh  ? 
I'm  sure.     I  don't  know." 

7 

Miriam  sat  on  in  the  schoolroom  after  supper 
with  the  newspaper  spread  out  on  the  brov/n 
American  cloth  table  cover  under  the  gas.  She 
found  a  long  column  headed  "  The  Royal  Com- 
mission on  Education."  The  Queen,  then,  was 
interesting  herself  in  education.  But  in  England 
the  sovereign  had  no  power,  was  only  a  figure- 
head. Perhaps  the  Queen  had  been  advised  to 
interest  herself  in  education  by  the  Privy  Council 


100  BACKWATER 

and  the  Conservatives,  people  of  leisure  and 
cultivation.  A  commission  was  a  sort  of  com- 
mand— it  must  be  important,  something  the 
Privy  Council  had  decided  and  sent  out  in  the 
Queen's  name. 

She  read  her  column,  sitting  comfortlessly  be- 
tween the  window  and  the  open  door.  As  she 
read  the  room  grew  still.  The  memory  of  the  talk- 
ing and  clinking  supper-table  faded,  and  presently 
even  the  ticking  of  the  clock  was  no  longer  there. 
She  raised  her  head  at  last.  No  wonder  people 
read  newspapers.  You  could  read  about  what 
was  going  on  in  the  country,  actually  what  the 
Government  was  doing  at  that  very  moment. 
Of  course ;  men  seemed  to  know  such  a  lot 
because  they  read  the  newspapers  and  talked 
about  what  was  in  them.  But  anybody  could 
know  as  much  as  the  men  sitting  in  the  arm- 
chairs if  they  chose  ;  read  all  about  everything, 
written  down  for  everybody  to  see.  That  was 
the  freedom  of  the  Press — Areopagitica,  that  the 
history  books  said  so  much  about  and  was  one 
of  those  new  important  things,  more  important 
than  facts  and  dates.  Like  the  Independence  of 
Ireland.  Yet  very  few  people  really  talked  like 
newspapers.    Only  angry  men  with  loud  voices. 


BACKWATER  loi 

Here  was  the  free  Press  that  Milton  had  gone  to 
prison  for.  Certainly  it  made  a  great  difference. 
The  room  was  quite  changed.  There  was  hardly 
any  pain  in  the  silent  cane-seated  chairs.  There 
were  really  people  making  the  world  better. 
Now.  At  last.  Perhaps  it  was  rather  a  happy 
fate  to  be  a  teacher  in  the  Banbury  Park  school 
and  read  newspapers.  There  were  plenty  of 
people  who  could  neither  read  nor  write.  Some- 
one had  a  servant  like  that  who  did  all  the  market- 
ing and  never  forgot  anything  or  made  any  mis- 
take over  the  change — none  the  worse  for  it, 
pater  said,  people  who  wanted  book-learning 
could  get  it,  there  must  always  be  hewers  of  wood 
and  drawers  of  water,  laissez  /aire.  But  Glad- 
stone did  not  believe  that.  At  this  moment 
Gladstone  was  saying  that  because  the  people  of 
England  as  a  whole  were  uneducated  their  "  con- 
dition of  ignorance  "  affected  the  whole  of  the 
"  body  politic."  That  was  Gladstone.  He  had 
found  that  out  .  .  .  with  large  moist  silky  eyes 
like  a  dog  and  pointed  collars  seeing  things  as 
they  were  and  going  to  change  them.  .  .  .  Miriam 
stirred  uneasily  as  she  felt  the  beating  of  her 
heart.  ...  If  only  she  were  at  home  how  she 
could  rush  up  and  down  the  house  and  shout 


102  BACKWATER 

about  it  and  shake  Mary  by  the  shoulders.  She 
shrank  into  herself  and  sat  stiffly  up,  suddenly 
discovering  she  was  lounging  over  the  table.  As 
she  moved  she  reflected  that  probably  Gladstone's 
being  so  very  dark  made  him  determined  that 
things  should  not  go  on  as  they  were.  In  that 
case  Gladstonians  would  be  dark — perhaps  not 
musical.  Someone  had  said  musical  people  were 
a  queer  soft  lot.  Laissez  faire.  Lazy  fair.  But 
perhaps  it  was  possible  to  be  fair  and  musical  and 
to  be  a  Gladstonian  too.  You  can't  have  your 
cake  and  eat  it.  No.  It  was  a  good  thing,  one's 
best  self  knew  it  was  a  good  thing  t\dt  someone 
had  found  out  why  people  were  so  awful ;  like 
a  dentist  finding  out  a  bad  tooth  however  much 
it  hurt.  Only  if  education  was  going  to  be  the 
principal  thing  and  all  teachers  were  to  be 
*  qualified  '  it  was  no  use  going  on.  Miss  Jenny 
had  said  private  schools  were  doomed. 

8 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  blankly  contemplating 
the  new  world  that  was  coming.  Everyone  would 
be  trained  and  efficient  but  herself.  She  was  not 
strong  enough  to  earn  a  living  and  quahfy  as  a 
teacher  at  the  same  time.    The  day's  work  tired 


BACKWATER  103 

her  to  death.  She  must  hide  somewhere.  .  .  . 
She  would  not  be  wanted.  ...  If  you  were  not 
wanted.  ...  If  you  knew  you  were  not  wanted 
— ^you  ought  to  get  out  of  the  way.  Chloroform. 
Someone  had  drunk  a  bottle  of  carbolic  acid. 
The  clock  struck  ten.  Gathering  up  the  news- 
paper she  folded  it  neatly,  put  it  on  the  hall  table 
and  went  slowly  upstairs,  watching  the  faint 
reflection  of  the  half-lowered  hall  gas  upon  the 
polished  balustrade.  The  staircase  was  cold  and 
airy.  Cold  rooms  and  landings  stretched  up 
away  above  her  into  the  darkness.  She  became 
aware  of  a  curious  buoyancy  rising  within  her. 
It  was  so  strange  that  she  stood  still  for  a  moment 
on  the  stair.  For  a  second,  life  seemed  to  cease 
in  her  and  the  staircase  to  be  swept  from  under 
her  feet.  ..."  I'm  alive."  ...  It  was  as  if 
something  had  struck  her,  struck  right  through 
her  impalpable  body,  sweeping  it  away,  leaving  her 
there  shouting  silently  without  it.  I'm  alive.  .  .  . 
I'm  alive.  Then  with  a  thump  her  heart  went  on 
again  and  her  fee.t  carried  her  body  warm  and 
happy  and  elastic  easily  on  up  the  solid  stairs. 
She  tried  once  or  twice  deliberately  to  bring  back 
the  breathless  moment  standing  still  on  a  stair. 
Each  time  something  of  it  returned.    "  It's  me, 


I04  BACKWATER 

me  ;  this  is  me  being  alive,"  she  murmured  with 
a  feeling  under  her  Hke  the  sudden  drop  of  a  lift. 
But  her  thoughts  distracted  her.  They  were 
eagerly  talking  to  her  declaring  that  she  had  had 
this  feehng  before.  She  opened  her  bedroom 
door  very  quietly.  The  air  of  the  room  told  her 
that  Nancie  and  Beadie  were  asleep.  Going 
Hghtly  across  to  the  chest  of  drawers  dressing- 
table  by  the  window  as  if  she  were  treading  on 
air,  she  stood  holding  its  edge  in  the  darkness. 
Two  forgotten  incidents  flowed  past  her  in  quick 
succession ;  one  of  waking  up  on  her  seventh 
birthday  in  the  seaside  villa  alone  in  a  small  dark 
room  and  suddenly  saying  to  herself  that  one  day 
her  father  and  mother  would  die  and  she  would 
still  be  there,  and  after  a  curious  moment  when 
the  darkness  seemed  to  move  against  her,  feeling 
very  old  and  crying  bitterly,  and  another  of 
standing  in  the  bow  of  the  dining-room  window 
at  Barnes  looking  at  the  raindrops  faUing  from 
the  leaves  through  the  sunshine  and  saying  to 
Eve,  who  came  into  the  room  as  she  watched, 
"  D'you  know.  Eve,  I  feel  as  if  I'd  suddenly 
wakened  up  out  of  a  dream."  The  bedroom 
was  no  longer  dark.  She  could  see  the  outlines 
of  everything  in  the  light  coming  from  the  street 


BACKWATER  105 

lamps  through  the  half-closed  Venetian  blinds. 
Beadie  sighed  and  stirred.  Miriam  began  im- 
patiently preparing  for  bed  without  Hghting  the 
gas.  "  What's  the  use  of  feeling  like  that  if  it 
doesn't  stay  ?  It  doesn't  change  anything.  Next 
time  I'll  make  it  stay.  It  might  whisk  me  right 
away.  There's  something  in  me  that  can't  be 
touched  or  altered.  Me.  If  it  comes  again.  If 
it's  stronger  every  time.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  goes  on 
getting  stronger  till  you  die." 


CHAPTER    IV 


WHEEZING,  cook  had  spread  a  plaster  of 
dampened  ashy  cinders  upon  the  base- 
ment schoolroom  fire  and  gone  bonily  away 
across  the  oilcloth  in  her  heelless  boots.  As  the 
door  closed  Miriam's  eye  went  up  from  her  book 
to  the  little  slope  of  grass  showing  above  the 
concrete  wall  of  the  area.  The  grass  gleamed 
along  the  edge  of  a  bank  of  mist.  In  the  mist 
the  area  railings  stood  hard  and  solid  against  the 
edge  of  empty  space.  Several  times  she  glanced 
at  the  rich  green,  feeling  that  neither  '  emerald,' 
'  emerald  velvet,'  nor  '  velvety  enamel '  quite 
expressed  it.  She  had  not  noticed  that  there  was 
a  mist  shutting  in  and  making  brilliant  the  half- 
darkness  of  the  room  at  breakfast-time,  only 
feeling  that  for  some  reason  it  was  a  good  day. 
"  It's  fog — there's  a  sort  of  fog,"  she  said,  glowing. 
The  fog  made  the  room  with  the  strange  brilliant 
brown  light  on  the  table,  on  the  horsehair  chairs, 

1 06 


BACKWATER  107 

on  the  shabby  length  of  brown  and  yellow  oilcloth 
running  out  to  the  bay  of  the  low  window,  seem  to 
be  rushing  through  space,  alone.  It  was  quite  safe, 
going  on  its  journey — towards  some  great  good. 

The  back  door,  just  across  the  little  basement 
hall,  scrooped  inwards  across  the  oilcloth,  jingling 
its  little  bell,  and  was  banged  to.  The  flounter- 
crack  of  a  raincloak  smartly  shaken  out  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  gentle  scrabbling  in  a  shoe-box, — the 
earliest  girl,  peaceful  and  calm,  a  wonderful  sort 
of  girl,  coming  into  the  empty  basement  quietly 
getting  off  her  things,  with  all  the  rabble  of  the 
school  coming  along  the  roads,  behind.  The 
jingling  door  was  pushed  open  again  just  as  her 
slippered  feet  ran  upstairs.  "  Khoo — what  a 
filthy  day  !  "  said  a  vibrating  hard  mature  voice. 
Miriam  glanced  at  her  time-table,  history — dicta- 
tion— geography — sums — writing — and  shrank  to 
her  utmost  air  of  preoccupation  lest  either  of  the 
elder  girls  should  look  in. 

Sounds  increased  in  the  little  hall,  loud  abrupt 
voices,  short  rallying  laughs,  the  stubbing  and 
stamping  of  feet  on  the  oilcloth.  At  the  ex- 
pected rattling  of  the  handle  of  her  own  door 
she  crouched  over  her  book.  The  door  opened 
and  was  quietly  closed  again.     A  small   figure 


io8  BACKWATER 

flung  itself  forward.  Miriam  was  clutched  by 
harsh  serge-clad  arms.  As  she  moved,  startled, 
firm  cracked  lips  were  pressed  against  her  cheek- 
bone. "  Good  morning,  Burra,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  put  an  arm  round  the  child.  She  caught 
a  glimpse  of  broad  cheeks  bulging  firmly  against 
a  dark  bush  of  short  hair.  Large  fierce  bloodshot 
eyes  glared  close  to  her  own.  "  Hoo — ^^angel." 
The  little  gasping  body  stiffened  against  her 
shoulder,  pinning  down  her  arm.  The  crimson 
face  tried  to  reach  her  breast.  "  Have  you 
changed  your  boots,"  said  Miriam  coldly.  "  Hoo 
— hoo."  The  short  hard  fingers  hurt  her.  "  Go 
and  get  them  off  at  once."  Head  down  Burra 
rushed  at  the  door,  colliding  with  the  incoming 
figure  of  a  neat  little  girl  dressed  in  velvet- 
trimmed  red  merino,  with  a  rose  and  white  face 
and  short  gentle  gold  hair.  She  put  a  little  pile 
of  books  on  the  table  and  stood  still  near  to 
Miriam,  v^dth  her  hands  behind  her.  They  both 
looked  down  the  room  out  of  the  window,  with 
quiet  unsmiling  faces.  "  What  have  you  been 
doing  since  Friday,  Gertie  ?  "  Miriam  said  pre- 
sently. "  We  went  for  a  walk,"  said  Gertie  in  a 
neat  liquid  little  voice,  dimpling  and  faintly 
raising  her  eyebrows. 


BACKWATER  109 

The  eight  little  girls  who  made  up  the  upper 
class  of  the  junior  school  stood  in  a  close  row  as 
near  as  possible  to  Miriam's  chair  at  the  head  of 
the  table.  They  were  silent  and  fresh  and  eagerly- 
crowded,  waiting  for  her  to  begin.  She  kept 
them  silent  for  a  few  moments  for  the  pleasure 
of  having  them  there  with  her.  She  knew  that 
Miss  Perne,  sitting  in  the  window  space  with  the 
youngest  class  drawn  up  in  a  half-circle  for  their 
Scripture  lesson,  was  an  approving  presence, 
keeping  her  own  little  class  at  a  level  of  quiet 
question  and  answer  that  made  a  background 
rather  than  a  disturbance  for  the  adventure  of 
the  elder  girls.  "  Not  too  close  together,"  said 
Miriam  at  last,  gathering  herself  with  a  deep 
breath ;  "  throw  back  your  shoulders  and  stand 
straight.  Don't  lump  down  on  your  heels.  Let 
your  weight  come  on  the  ball  of  your  feet.  Are 
you  all  all  right  ?  Don't  poke  your  heads  forward." 
As  the  girls  eagerly  manoeuvred  themselves,  wil- 
fully carrying  out  her  instructions  even  to  turning 
their  heads  to  face  the  opposite  wall,  she  caught 
most  of  the  eyes  in  turn  smiling  their  eager 
affectionate  conspiracy,  and  restraining  her  desire 
to  get  up  then  and  there  and  clasp  the  little 
figures  one  by  one,  began  the  lesson.     Four  of 


no  BACKWATER 

the  girls,  two  square-built  Quakeresses  with 
straight  brown  frocks,  deep  slow  voices  and  dreamy 
eyes,  a  white- faced,  tawny-haired,  thin  child  with 
an  eager  stammer,  and  a  brilliant  little  Jewess  knew 
the  "  principal  facts  and  dates  "  of  the  reign  of 
Edward  I  by  rote  backwards  and  forwards  in 
response  to  any  form  of  question.  Burra  hung  her 
head  and  knew  nothing.  Beadie  Featherwell, 
dreadfully  tall,  a  head  taller,  with  her  twelve 
years,  than  the  tallest  child  in  the  lower  school, 
knew  no  more  than  Burra  and  stood  staring  at 
the  wall  and  biting  her  lips.  A  stout  child  with 
open  mouth  and  snoring  breath  answered  with 
perfect  exactitude  from  the  book,  but  her  an- 
swers bore  no  relationship  to  the  questions,  and 
Gertie  could  only  pipe  replies  if  the  questions 
were  so  put  as  to  contain  part  of  the  answer. 
The  white- faced  girl  was  beginning  to  gnaw  her 
fingers  by  the  time  the  questioning  was  at  an 
end. 

"  Well  now,  what  is  the  difficulty,"  said  Miriam, 
"  of  getting  hold  of  the  events  of  this  queer  little 
reign  ?  "  Everybody  laughed  and  was  silent  again 
at  once  because  Miriam's  voice  went  on,  trying 
to  interest  both  herself  and  the  successful  girls  in 
inventing  ways  of  remembering  all  the  things 


BACKWATER  in 

that  had  to  be  "  hooked  on  to  the  word  Edward." 
In  less  than  ten  minutes  even  the  stout  snoring 
girl  could  repeat  the  reign  successfully,  and  for 
the  remainder  of  their  time  they  talked  aimlessly. 
The  children  standing  at  ease,  saying  whatever 
occurred  to  them,  even  the  snoring  girl  secured 
from  ridicule  by  Miriam's  consideration  of  what- 
ever was  offered.  Their  adventure  took  them 
away  from  their  subject  into  what  Miriam  knew 
"  clever "  people  would  call  "  side  issues." 
"  Nothing  is  a  side  issue,"  she  told  herself  pas- 
sionately with  her  eyes  on  the  green  glare  beyond 
the  window.  The  breaking  up  of  Miss  Perne's 
class  left  the  whole  of  the  lower  school  on  her 
hands  for  the  rest  of  the  morning. 


By  half-past  twelve  she  was  sitting  alone  and 
exhausted  with  aching  throat  at  her  place  at  the 
head  of  the  table. 

"  Khoo,  isn't  it  a  filthy  day  !  "  Polly  Allen,  a 
short  heavy  girl  with  a  sallow  pitted  face,  thin 
ill-nourished  hair  and  kind  swiftly  moving  grey 
eyes,  marched  in  out  of  the  dark  hall  with 
flapping  bootlaces.  In  the  bay  she  sat  down  and 
began  to  lace  up  her  boots.     The  laces  flicked 


112  BACKWATER 

carelessly  upon  the  linoleum  as  she  threaded, 
profaning  the  little  sanctuary  of  the  window 
space.  "  Oh  me  bones,  me  poor  old  bones,"  she 
muttered.  "  Eunice  !  "  her  hard  mature  voice 
vibrated  through  the  room.    "  Eunice  Dupont !  " 

"  What's  the  jolly  row  ?  "  said  a  slow  voice  at 
the  door.     "  Wot's  the  bally  shindy,  beloved  ?  " 

"  Like  a  really  beautiful  Cheshire  cat,"  Miriam 
repeated  to  herself,  propped  studiously  on  her 
elbows  shrinking,  and  hoping  that  if  she  did  not 
look  round,  Eunice's  carved  brown  curls,  her 
gleaming  slithering  opaque  oval  eyes  and  her 
short  upper  lip,  the  strange  evil  carriage  of  her 
head,  the  wicked  lines  of  her  figure,  would  be 
withdrawn.  "  Cheshire,  Cheshire,"  she  scolded 
inwardly,  feeling  the  pain  in  her  throat  increase. 

"  Nothing.  Wait  for  me.  That's  all.  Oh,  my 
lungs,  bones  and  et  ceteras.  It's  old  age,  I  sup- 
pose, Uncle  William." 

"  Well,  hurry  your  old  age  up,  that's  all.  I'm 
ready." 

"  Well,  don't  go  away,  you  funny  cuckoo,  you 
can  wait,  can't  you  ?  " 

A  party  of  girls  straggled  in  one  by  one  and 
drifted  towards  Polly  in  the  window  space. 

"  It's  the  parties  I  look  forward  to." 


BACKWATER  113 

"  Oh,  look  at  her  tie  !  " 

"  My  tie  ?    Six-three  at  Crisp's." 

The  sounds  of  Polly's  bootlacing  came  to 
an  end.  She  sat  holding  a  court.  "  Doesn't 
look  forward  to  parties  ?  She  must  be  a  funny 
cuckoo  !  " 

"  Dancing's  divine,"  said  a  smooth  deep  smil- 
ing voice.  "  Reversing.  Khoo !  with  a  fella. 
Khooo  !  " 

"  You  surprise  me,  Edie.  You  do  indeed. 
Hoh.    Shocking." 

"  Shocking  ?  Why  ?  What  do  you  mean, 
Poll  ?  " 

"  Nothing.    Nothing.    Riang  doo  too." 

"  I  don't  think  dancing's  shocking.  How  can 
it  be  ?    You're  barmy,  my  son." 

"  Ever  heard  of  Lottie  ColHns  ?  " 

"  Ssh.    Don't  be  silly." 

"  I  don't  see  what  Lottie  Collins  has  got  to 
do  with  it.  My  mother  thinks  dancing's  all  right. 
That's  good  enough  for  me." 

"  Well — I'm  not  your  mother." 

"  Nor  anyone  else's." 

"  Khoo,  Maheir 

"  Who  wants  to  be  anyone's  mother  ?  " 

"  Not  me.    Ug.    Beastly  httle  brats." 


114  BACKWATER 

"  Oh  shut  wp.    Oh  you  do  make  me  tired." 
"  Kids  are  jolly.    Ai.    I  hope  I  have  lots." 
Surprised  into  amazement,  Miriam  looked  up 
to  consult  the  face  of  Jessie  Wheeler,  the  last 
speaker — a   tall   flat-figured   girl  with   a   strong 
squarish  pale  face,  hollow  cheeks,  and  firm  colour- 
less lips.    Was  it  being  a  Baptist  that  made  her 
have  such  an  extraordinary  idea  ?    Miriam's  eyes 
sought  refuge  from  the  defiant  beam  of  her  sea- 
blue  eyes  in  the  shimmering  cloud  of  her  hair. 
The  strangest  hair  in  the  school ;   negroid  in  its 
intensity  of  fuzziness,  but  saved  by  its  fine  mesh. 
"  Don't  you  adore  kiddies,  Miss  Henderson  ?  " 
"  I  think  they're  rather  nice,"  said  Miriam 
quickly,  and  returned  to  her  book. 

"  I  should  jolly  well  think  they  were,"  said 
Jessie  fervently. 

"  Hope  your  husband'll  think  so  too,  my  dear," 
said  Polly,  getting  up. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  should  only  have  them  if  the 
fellow  wanted  me  to." 

"  You  haven't  got  a  fella  yet,  madam." 
"Of  course  not,  cuckoo.    But  I  shall." 
"  Plenty  of  time  to  think  about  that." 
"  Hoo.    Fancy  never  having  a  fellow.    I  should 
go  off  my  nut." 


BACKWATER  115 

When  they  had  all  disappeared  Miriam  opened 
the  windows.  There  was  still  someone  moving 
about  in  the  hall,  and  as  she  stood  in  the  in- 
streaming  current  of  damp  air  looking  wearily  at 
the  concrete — a  girl  came  into  the  room.  "  Can 
I  come  in  a  minute  ?  "  she  said,  advancing  to  the 
window.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  pursued 
when  she  reached  the  bay.  She  stood  at  Miriam's 
side  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Half- 
turning,  Miriam  had  recognized  Grace  Broom, 
one  of  the  elder  first-class  girls  who  attended 
only  for  a  few  subjects.  She  was  a  dark  short- 
necked  girl  with  thick  shoulders ;  a  receding 
mouth  and  boldly  drawn  nose  and  chin  gave  her 
a  look  of  shrewd  elderliness.  The  heavy  mass  of 
hair  above  the  broad  sweep  of  her  forehead,  her 
heavy  frame  and  flat-footed  walk  added  to  this 
appearance.  She  wore  a  high-waisted  black 
serge  pinafore  dress  with  black  crape  vest  and 
sleeves. 

"  Do  you  mind  me  speaking  to  you  ?  "  she  said 
in  a  hot  voice.  Her  black- fringed  brown  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  garden  railings  where  people  passed 
by  and  Miriam  never  looked. 

"  No,"  said  Miriam  shyly. 

"  You  know  why  we're  in  mourning  ?  " 


ii6  BACKWATER 

Miriam  stood  silent  with  beating  heart,  trying 
to  cope  with  the  increasing  invasion. 

"  Our  father's  dead." 

Hurriedly  Miriam  noted  the  superstitious  tone 
in  the  voice.  .  .  .  This  is  a  family  that  revels  in 
plumes  and  hearses.  She  glanced  at  the  stiff 
rather  full  crape  sleeve  nearest  to  her  and  sought 
about  in  her  mind  for  help  as  she  said  with  a 
blush,  "  Oh,  I  see." 

"  We've  just  moved." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  see,"  said  Miriam,  glancing  fear- 
fully at  the  heavy  scroll  of  profile  and  finding  it 
expressive  and  confused. 

"  We've  got  a  house  about  a  quarter  as  big  as 
where  we  used  to  live." 

Miriam  found  it  impossible  to  respond  to  this 
confession  and  still  tried  desperately  to  sweep 
away  the  sense  of  the  figure  so  solidly  planted  at 
her  side. 

"  I've  asked  our  aunt  if  we  can  ask  you  to  come 
to  tea  with  us." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Miriam  in  one 
word. 

"  When  could  you  come  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  come.  It  would  be 
impossible." 


BACKWATER  117 

"  Oh  no.  You  must  come.  I  shall  ask  Aunt 
Lucy  to  write  to  Miss  Perne." 

"  I  really  couldn't  come.  I  shouldn't  be  able 
to  ask  you  back." 

"  That  doesn't  matter,"  panted  the  relentless 
voice.  "  I've  wanted  to  speak  to  you  ever  since 
you  came." 

3 

When  next  Miriam  saw  the  black-robed  Brooms 
and  their  aunt  file  past  the  transept  where  were 
the  Wordsworth  House  sittings,  she  felt  that  to 
visit  them  might  perhaps  not  be  the  ordeal  she 
had  not  dared  to  picture.  It  would  be  strange. 
Those  three  heavy  black-dressed  women.  Their 
small  new  house.  She  imagined  them  sitting  at 
tea  in  a  little  room.  Why  was  Grace  so  deter- 
mined that  she  should  sit  there  too  ?  Grace  had 
a  life  and  a  home  and  was  real.  She  did  not 
know  that  things  were  awful.  Nor  did  Florrie 
Broom,  nor  the  aunt.  But  yet  they  did  not  look 
like  *  social '  people.  They  were  a  little  different. 
Not  worldly.  Not  pious  either.  Nor  intellectual. 
What  could  they  want  with  her  ?  She  had  soon 
forgotten  them  and  the  congregation  assumed 
its  normal  look.  As  the  service  went  on  the 
thoughts  came  that  came  every  Sunday.    An  old 


ij8  backwater 

woman  with  a  girl  at  her  side  were  the  only- 
people  whose  faces  were  within  Miriam's  line  of 
vision  from  her  place  at  the  wall  end  of  the 
Wordsworth  House  pew.  The  people  in  front  of 
them  were  not  even  in  profile,  and  those  behind 
were  hidden  from  her  by  the  angle  of  the  tran- 
sept wall.  To  her  right  she  could  just  see  rising 
above  the  heads  in  the  rows  of  pews  in  front  of 
her  the  far  end  of  the  chancel  screen.  The  faces 
grouped  in  the  transept  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  church  were  a  blur.  The  two  figures  sat  or 
knelt  or  stood  in  a  heavy  silence.  They  neither 
sang  nor  prayed.  Their  faces  remained  unaltered 
during  the  whole  service.  To  Miriam  they  were 
its  most  intimate  part.  During  the  sermon  she 
rarely  raised  her  eyes  from  the  circle  they  filled 
for  her  as  they  sat  thrown  into  relief  by  the  great 
white  pillar.  Their  faces  were  turned  towards 
the  chancel.  They  could  see  its  high  dim  roof 
and  distant  altar,  the  light  on  the  altar,  flowers, 
shining  metal,  embroideries,  the  maze  of  the  east 
window,  the  white  choir.  They  showed  no  sign 
of  seeing  these  things.  The  old  woman's  heavy 
face  with  its  heavy  jaw-bone  seemed  to  have 
been  dead  for  years  under  its  cofhn-shaped  black 
bonnet.    Her  large  body  was  covered  by  a  mantle 


BACKWATER  119 

of  thickly  ribbed  black  material  trimmed  with 
braid  and  bugles.  That  bright  yellow  colour 
meant  liver.  Whatever  she  had  she  was  dying  of 
it.  People  were  always  dying  when  they  looked 
like  that.  But  it  was  a  bad  way  to  die.  The  real 
way  was  the  way  of  that  lady  trailing  about  over 
the  Heath  near  Roehampton,  dying  by  inches  of 
an  internal  complaint,  with  her  face  looking  fragile 
— like  the  little  alabaster  chapelle  in  the  nursery 
with  a  candle  alight  inside.  She  was  going  to 
die,  walking  about  alone  on  the  Heath  in  the  after- 
noons. Her  family  going  on  as  usual  at  home  ; 
the  greengrocer  calling.  She  knew  that  every- 
body was  alone  and  that  all  the  fuss  and  noise 
people  made  all  day  was  a  pretence.  .  .  .  What 
to  do  ?  To  be  walking  about  with  a  quiet  face 
meeting  death.  Nothing  could  be  so  alone  as 
that.  The  pain,  and  struggle,  and  darkness.  .  .  . 
That  was  what  the  old  woman  feared.  She  did 
not  think  about  death.  She  was  afraid  and  sullen 
all  the  time.  Stunned,  sitting  there  with  her 
cold  common  daughter.  She  had  been  common 
herself  as  a  girl,  but  more  noisy,  and  she  had 
married  and  never  thought  about  dying,  and  now 
she  was  dying  and  hating  her  cold  daughter. 
The  daughter,  sitting  there  with  her  stiff  slatey- 


120  BACKWATER 

blue  coat  and  skirt,  her  indistinct  hat  tied  with  a 
thin  harsh  veil  to  her  small  flat  head — what  a 
home  with  her  in  it  all  the  time.  She  would 
never  laugh.  Her  poor-looking  cheeks  were 
yellowish,  her  fringe  dry,  without  gloss.  She 
would  move  her  mouth  when  she  spoke,  sideways 
with  a  snarling  curl  of  one-half  of  the  upper  lip 
and  have  that  resentful  way  of  speaking  that  all 
North  Londoners  have,  and  the  maddening  North 
London  accent.  The  old  woman's  voice  would  be 
deep  and  hollow.  .  .  .  The  girl  moving  heavily 
about  the  house  wearing  boots  and  stiff  dresses  and 
stiff  stays  showing  their  outline  through  her  clothes. 
They  would  be  bitter  to  their  servant  and  would 
not  trust  her.  What  was  the  good  of  their  being 
alive  ...  a  house  and  a  water  system  and  drains 
and  cooking,  and  they  would  take  all  these  things 
for  granted  and  grumble  and  snarl  .  .  .  the  gas 
meter  man  would  call  there.  Did  men  like  that 
resent  calling  at  houses  like  that  ?  No.  They'd 
just  say,  "  The  ole  party  she  sez  to  me."  How 
good  they  were,  these  men.  Good  and  kind  and 
cheerful.  Someone  ought  to  prevent  the  extra- 
vagance of  keeping  whole  houses  and  fires  going 
for  women  like  that.  They  ought  to  be  in  an 
institution.    But  they  never  thought  about  that. 


BACKWATER  121 

They  were  satisfied  with  themselves.  They  were 
self-satisfied  because  they  did  not  know  what  they 
were  like.  .  .  .  Why  should  you  have  a  house, 
and  tradesmen  calling  ? 

"  Jehoiakin  I  "  The  rush  of  indistinct  expos- 
tulating sound  coming  from  the  pulpit  was  accom- 
panied for  a  moment  by  reverberations  of  the 
one  clearly  bawled  word.  The  sense  of  the  large 
cold  church,  the  great  stone  pillars^the  long  nar- 
row windows  faintly  stained  with  yellowish  green, 
the  harsh  North  London  congregation  stirred  and 
seemed  to  settle  down  more  securely.  She  saw 
the  form  of  the  vicar  in  the  light  grey  stone 
pulpit  standing  up  short  and  neat  against  the 
cold  grey  stone  wall,  enveloped  in  fine  soft  folds, 
his  small  puckered  hands  beautifully  cuffed,  his 
plump  crumpled  little  face,  his  small  bald  head 
fringed  with  little  saffron-white  curls,  his  pink 
pouched  busy  mouth.  What  was  it  all  about  ? 
Pompous  pottering,  going  on  and  on  and  on — in 
the  Old  Testament.  The  whole  church  was  in 
the  Old  Testament.  .  .  .  Honour  thy  father  and 
thy  mother.  How  horribly  the  words  would  echo 
through  the  great  cold  church.  Why  honour 
thy  father  and  thy  mother  ?  What  had  they 
done  that  was  so  honourable  ?     Everybody  was 


122  BACKWATER 

dying  in  cold  secret  fear.  Christ,  the  son  of 
God,  was  part  of  it  all,  the  same  family  .  .  . 
vindictive.  Christmas  and  Easter,  hard  white 
cold  flowers,  no  real  explanation.  "  I  came  not 
to  destroy  but  to  fulfil."  The  stagnant  blood 
flushed  in  her  face  and  tingled  in  her  ears  as  the 
words  occurred  to  her.  Why  didn't  everybody 
die  at  once  and  stop  it  all  ? 

4 

Miss  Haddie  paused  at  the  door  of  her  room 
and  wheeled  suddenly  round  to  face  Miriam  who 
had  just  reached  the  landing. 

"  You've  not  seen  my  little  corner,"  she  tweed- 
led  breathlessly,  throwing  open  her  door. 

Miriam  went  in.  "  Oh  how  nice,"  she  said  fear- 
fully, breathing  in  the  freshness  of  a  little  square 
sun-filled  muslin-draped,  blue-papered  room. 
Taking  refuge  at  the  white-skirted  window,  she 
found  a  narrow  view  of  the  park,  greener  than 
the  one  she  knew.  The  wide  yellow  pathway 
going  up  through  the  cricket  ground  had  shifted 
away  to  the  right. 

"  It's  really  a — a — a  dressing-room  from  your 
room." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miriam  vivaciously. 


BACKWATER  123 

"  There's  a  door,  a' — a — a  door.  I  daresay 
you've  noticed." 

"  Oh  !  That's  the  door  in  our  cupboard  !  " 
The  dim  door  behind  the  hanging  garments  led 
to  nothing  but  to  Miss  Haddie's  room.  She 
began  unbuttoning  her  gloves. 

Miss  Haddie  was  hesitating  near  a  cupboard, 
making  little  sounds. 

"  I  suppose  we  must  all  make  ourselves  tidy 
now,"  said  Miriam. 

"I  thought  you  didn't  look  very  happy  in  church 
this  morning,"  cluttered  Miss  Haddie  rapidly. 

Miriam  felt  heavy  with  anger.  "  Oh,"  she  said 
clumsily,  "  I  had  the  most  frightful  headache." 

"  Poor  child.    I  thought  ye  didn't  look  yerself ." 

The  window  was  shut.  But  the  room  was 
mysteriously  fresh,  far  away  from  the  school. 
A  fly  was  hovering  about  the  muslin  window 
blind  with  little  reedy  loops  of  song.  The  oboe 
...  in  the  quintet,  thought  Miriam  suddenly. 
"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  listening.  The  flies 
sang  like  this  at  home.  She  had  heard  them  with- 
out knowing  it.  She  moved  in  her  place  by  the 
window.  The  fly  swept  up  to  the  ceiling,  waver- 
ing on  a  deep  note  like  a  tiny  gong.  .  .  .  Hot 
sunny  refined  lawns,  roses  in  bowls  on  summer- 


124  BACKWATER 

house  tea-tables,  refined  voices  far  away  from  the 
Caledonian  Road. 

"  Flies  don't  buzz"  she  said  passionately. 
"  They  don't  buzz.  Why  do  people  say  they 
buzz  ?  "  The  pain  pressing  behind  her  temples 
slackened.    In  a  moment  it  would  be  only  a  glow. 

Miss  Haddie  stood  with  bent  head,  her  face 
turning  from  side  to  side,  with  its  sour  hesitating 
smile,  her  large  eyes  darting  their  strange  glances 
about  the  room. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  a  minute  ?  They  haven't 
sounded  the  first  bell  yet."  Miriam  sat  down  on 
the  one  little  white-painted,  cane-seated  chair 
near  the  dressing-table.  "  Eh — eh,"  said  Miss 
Haddie,  beginning  to  unfasten  her  veil.  "  She 
doesn't  approve  of  general  conversation,"  thought 
Miriam.  "  She's  a  female.  Oh  well,  she'll  have 
to  see  I'm  not." 

"  What  gave  you  yer  headache  ?  " 

"  Oh  well,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I  was  won- 
dering what  it  was  all  about." 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  understand  ye." 

"  Well,  I  mean — ^what  that  old  gentleman  was 
in  such  a  state  of  mind  about." 

"  D'ye  mean  Mr.  La  Trobe  !  " 

"  Yes.    Why  do  you  laugh  ?  "  ii 


BACKWATER  125 

"  I  don't  understand  what  ye  mean." 

Miriam  watched  Miss  Haddie's  thin  fingers 
feeHng  for  the  pins  in  her  black  toque.  "Of 
course  not,"  she  thought,  looking  at  the  un- 
veiled shrivelled  cheek.  ..."  thirty-five  years  of 
being  a  lady." 

"  Oh  well,"  she  sighed  fiercely. 

"  What  is  it  ye  mean,  my  dear  ?  " 

— '  couldn't  make  head  or  tail  of  a  thing  the 
old  dodderer  said  ' — no  '  old  boy,'  no — these 
phrases  would  not  do  for  Miss  Haddie. 

"  I  couldn't  agree  with  anything  he  said." 

Miss  Haddie  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  little 
white  bed  burying  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
smoothing  them  up  and  down  with  a  wiping 
movement. 

"  One  can  always  criticise  a  sermon,"  she  said 
reproachfully. 

"  Well,  why  not  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  say  ye  r^«,"  said  Miss  Haddie  from 
behind  her  fingers,  "  but,  but  ye  shouldn't." 

"  You  can't  help  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  ye  can.  li  jq  listen  in  the  right 
spirit,"  gargled  Miss  Haddie  hurriedly. 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  only  the  sermon,  it's  the  whole 
thing,"  said  Miriam  crimsoning. 


126  BACKWATER 

"  Ye  mustn't  think  about  the  speaker,"  went 
on  Miss  Haddie  in  faint  hurried  rebuke.  "  That's 
wrong.  That  sets  people  running  from  church 
to  church.  You  must  attend  your  own  parish 
church  in  the  right  spirit,  let  the  preacher  be 
who — ^who — ^what  he  may." 

"  Oh,  but  I  think  that's  positively  dangerous^^ 
said  Miriam  gravely.  "  It  simply  means  leaving 
your  mind  open  for  whatever  they  choose  to  say. 
Like  Rome." 

"  Eh,  no— o — o,"  flared  Miss  Haddie  dropping 
her  hands,  "  nonsense.  Not  Hke  Rome  at 
all." 

"  But  it  is.    It's  giving  up  your  conscience." 

"  You're  very  determined,"  laughed  Miss 
Haddie  bitterly. 

"  I'm  certainly  not  going  to  give  my  mind  up 
to  a  parson  for  him  to  do  what  he  likes  with. 
That's  what  it  is.  That's  what  they  do.  I've 
seen  it  again  and  again.  I've  heard  people  talking 
about  sermons,"  finished  Miriam  with  vivacious 
intentness. 

Miss  Haddie  sat  very  still  with  her  hands  once 
more  pressed  tightly  against  her  face. 

"  Oh,  my  dear.  This  is  a  dreadful  state  of 
affairs.    I'm  afraid  you're  all  wrong.    That's  not 


BACKWATER  127 

it  at  all.  If  you  listen  only  for  the  good,  the 
good  will  come  to  you." 

"  But  these  men  don't  know.  How  should 
they  ?    They  don't  agree  amongst  themselves." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  that  is  a  very  wrong  attitude. 
How  long  have  ye  felt  like  this  ?  " 

"  Oh,  all  my  life,"  responded  Miriam  proudly. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  my  dear." 

"  Ever  since  I  can  remember.    Always." 

There  were  ivory-backed  brushes  on  the  dress- 
ing-table. Miriam  stared  at  them  and  let  her 
eyes  wander  on  to  a  framed  picture  of  an  agonised 
thorn-crowned  head. 

"  Were  you — ^have  ye — eh — ^have  ye  been  con- 
firmed ?  " 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  Did  ye  discuss  any  of  your  difficulties  with 
yer  vicar  ?  " 

"  Not  I.  I  knew  his  mind  too  well.  Had 
heard  him  preach  for  years.  He  would  have  run 
round  my  questions.  He  wasn't  capable  of  an- 
swering them.  For  instance,  supposing  I  had 
asked  him  what  I've  always  wanted  to  know. 
How  can  people,  ordinary  people,  be  expected 
to  be  like  Christ,  as  they  say,  when  they  think 
Christ  was  supernatural  ?     Of  course,  if  he  was 


128  BACKWATER 

supernatural  it  was  easy  enough  for  him  to  be  as 
he  was ;  if  he  was  not  supernatural,  then  there's 
nothing  in  the  whole  thing." 

"  My  dear  child  !  I'm  dreadfully  sorry  ye  feel 
like  that.  I'd  no  idea  ye  felt  like  that,  poor  child. 
I  knew  ye  weren't  quite  happy  always ;  I  mean 
I've  thought  ye  weren't  quite  happy  in  yer  mind 
sometimes,  but  I'd  no  idea — eh,  eh,  have  ye  ever 
consulted  anybody — anybody  able  to  give  ye 
advice  ?  " 

"  There  you  are.  That's  exactly  the  whole 
thing  !  Who  can  one  consult  ?  There  isn't  any- 
body. The  people  who  are  qualified  are  the 
people  who  have  the  thing  called  faith,  which 
means  that  they  beg  the  whole  question  from  the 
beginning." 

"  Eh — dear — me — Miriam — child  !  " 

"  Well,  I'm  made  that  way.  How  can  I  help 
it  if  faith  seems  to  me  just  an  abnormal  condition 
of  the  mind  with  fanaticism  at  one  end  and 
agnosticism  at  the  other  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  ye  believe  in  God  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  see  things  like  this.  On  one 
side  a  prime  cause  with  a  certain  object  unknown 
to  me,  bringing  humanity  into  being  ;  on  the 
other  side  humanity,  all  more  or  less  miserable. 


BACKWATER  129 

never  having  been  consulted  as  to  w^hether  they 
wanted  to  come  to  Hfe.  If  that  is  belief,  a  South 
Sea  Islander  could  have  it.  But  good  people, 
people  with  faith,  want  me  to  believe  that  one 
day  God  sent  a  saviour  to  rescue  the  world  from 
sin  and  that  the  world  can  never  be  grateful 
enough  and  must  become  as  Christ.  Well.  If 
God  made  people  he  is  responsible  and  ought  to 
save  them." 

"  What  do  yer  parents  think  about  yer  ideas  ?  " 

"  They  don't  know." 

"  Ye've  never  mentioned  yer  trouble  to  them  ?  " 

"  I  did  ask  Pater  once  when  we  were  coming 
home  from  the  Stabat  Mater  that  question  I've 
told  you  about." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  couldn't  answer.  We  were  just  by  the 
gate.  He  said  he  thought  it  was  a  remarkably 
reasonable  dilemma.    He  laughed." 

"  And  ye've  never  had  any  discussion  of  these 
things  with  him  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Ye're  an  independent  young  woman,"  said 
Miss  Haddie. 

Miriam  looked  up.  Miss  Haddie  was  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  her  bed.     A  faint  pink  flush  on  her 


I30  BACKWATER 

cheeks  made  her  eyes  look  almost  blue.  She  was 
no  longer  frowning.  *  I'm  something  new — a 
kind  of  different  world.  She  is  wondering.  I 
must  stick  to  my  guns,'  mused  Miriam. 

"  I'll  not  ask  ye,"  said  Miss  Haddie  quietly  and 
cheerfully,  "  to  expect  any  help  from  yer  fellow 
creatures  since  ye've  such  a  poor  opinion  of 
them.  But  ye're  not  happy.  Why  not  go 
straight  to  the  source  ?  " 

Miriam  waited.  For  a  moment  the  sheen  on 
Miss  Haddie's  silk  sleeves  had  distracted  her  by 
becoming  as  gentle  and  unchallenging  as  the  light 
on  her  mother's  dresses  when  there  were  other 
people  in  the  room.  She  had  feared  the  leaping 
out  of  some  emotional  appeal.  But  Miss  Haddie 
had  a  plan.    Strange  secret  knowledge. 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  ye  a  question." 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'll  put  it  in  this  way.  While  ye've 
watched  the  doings  of  yer  fellow  creatures  ye've 
forgotten  that  the  truth  ye're  seeking  is  a — a 
Person." 

Miriam  pondered. 

"  That's  where  ye  ought  to  begin.  And  how 
about — what — what  about — I  fancy  ye've  been 
neglecting  the — the  means  of  grace.  ...  I  think 


BACKWATER  131 

ye  have."  Miss  Haddie  rose  and  crossed  the 
room  to  a  Httle  bookshelf  at  the  head  of  her  bed, 
talking  happily  on.  '  Upright  as  a  dart,'  com- 
mented Miriam  mentally,  waiting  for  the  fulfil- 
ment of  the  promise  of  Miss  Haddie's  cheerful- 
ness. Against  the  straight  lines  of  the  wall- 
paper Miss  Haddie  showed  as  swaying  slightly 
backwards  from  the  waist  as  she  moved. 

The  first  bell  rang  and  Miriam  got  up  to  go. 
Miss  Haddie  came  forward  with  a  small  volume 
in  her  hands  and  held  it  out,  standing  close  by  her 
and  keeping  her  own  hold  on  the  volume.  "  Ye'U 
find  no  argument  in  it.  Not  but  I  think  a  few 
sound  arguments  would  do  ye  good.  Give  it  a 
try.  Don't  be  stiff-necked.  Just  read  it  and 
see."  The  smooth  soft  leather  slipped  altogether 
into  Miriam's  hands  and  she  felt  the  passing  con- 
tact of  a  cool  small  hand  and  noted  a  faint  fine 
scent  coming  to  her  from  Miss  Haddie's  person. 

In  her  own  room  she  found  that  the  soft 
binding  of  the  book  had  rounded  corners  and 
nothing  on  the  cover  but  a  small  plain  gold  cross 
in  the  right-hand  corner.  She  feasted  her  eyes 
on  it  as  she  took  off  her  things.  When  the  second 
bell  rang  she  glanced  inside  the  cover.  "  Pre- 
paration   for    Holy    Communion."      Hurriedly 


132  BACKWATER 

hiding  it  in  her  long  drawer  under  a  pile  of  linen, 
she  ran  to  the  door.  Running  back  again  she  took 
it  out  and  put  it,  together  with  her  prayer  book 
and  hymn  book,  in  the  small  top  drawer. 

5 
The  opportunity  to  use  Miss  Haddie's  book 
came  with  Nancie's  departure  for  a  week-end 
visit.  Beadie  was  in  the  deeps  of  her  first  sleep 
and  the  room  seemed  empty.  The  book  lay  open 
on  her  bed.  She  noted  as  she  placed  it  there 
when  she  began  preparing  for  bed  that  it  was 
written  by  a  bishop,  a  man  she  knew  by  name  as 
being  still  alive.  It  struck  her  as  extraordinary 
that  a  book  should  be  printed  and  read  while  the 
author  was  alive,  and  she  turned  away  with  a 
feeling  of  shame  from  the  idea  of  the  bishop, 
still  going  about  in  his  lawn  sleeves  and  talking, 
while  people  read  a  book  that  he  had  written  in 
his  study.  But  it  was  very  interesting  to  have 
the  book  to  look  at,  because  he  probably  knew 
about  modern  people  with  doubts  and  would  not 
think  about  them  as  '  infidels ' — '  an  honest 
agnostic  has  my  sympathy,'  he  might  say,  and  it 
was  possible  he  did  not  believe  in  eternal  punish- 
ment.    If  he  did  he  would  not  have  had  his  book 


BACKWATER  133 

printed  with  rounded  edges  and  that  beautiful 
Uttle  cross  ..."  Line  upon  Line "  and  the 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  were  not  meant  for  modern 
minds.  Archbishop  Whateley  had  a  "  chaste  and 
eloquent  wit  "  and  was  a  "  great  gardener."  A 
witty  archbishop  fond  of  gardening  was  simply- 
aggravating  and  silly. 

Restraining  her  desire  to  hurry,  Miriam  com- 
pleted her  toilet  and  at  last  knelt  down  in  her 
dressing-gown.  Its  pinked  neck-frill  fell  heavily 
against  her  face  as  she  leant  over  the  bed.  Tucking 
it  into  her  neck  she  clasped  her  outstretched 
hands,  leaving  the  book  within  the  circle  of  her 
arms.  The  attitude  seemed  a  little  lacking  in 
respect  for  the  beautifully  printed  gilt-edged 
pages.  Flattening  her  entwined  hands  between 
herself  and  the  edge  of  the  bed,  she  read  very 
slowly  that  just  as  for  worldly  communion  men 
cleanse  and  deck  their  bodies  so  for  attendance 
at  the  Holy  Feast  must  there  be  a  cleansing  and 
decking  of  the  spirit.  She  knelt  upright,  feeling 
herself  grow  very  grave.  The  cold  air  of  the  bed- 
room flowed  round  her  carrying  conviction.  Then 
that  dreadful  feeling  at  early  service,  kneeling 
like  a  lump  in  the  pew,  too  late  to  begin  to  be 
good,  the  exhausted  moments  by  the  altar  rail — 


134  BACKWATER 

the  challenging  light  on  the  shining  brass  rod,  on 
the  priest's  ring  and  the  golden  lining  of  the 
cup,  the  curious  bite  of  the  wine  in  the  throat — 
the  sullen  disappointed  home-coming  ;  all  the 
strange  failure  was  due  to  lack  of  preparation. 
She  knelt  for  some  moments,  without  thoughts, 
breathing  in  the  cleansing  air,  sighing  heavily  at 
intervals.  What  she  ought  to  do  was  clear.  A 
certain  time  for  preparation  could  be  taken  every 
night,  kneehng  up  in  bed  with  the  gas  out  if 
Nancie  were  awake,  and  a  specially  long  time  on 
Saturday  night.  The  decision  took  her  back  to 
her  book.  She  read  that  no  man  can  cleanse  him- 
self, but  it  is  his  part  to  examine  his  conscience 
and  confess  his  sins  with  a  prayer  for  cleansing 
grace. 

The  list  of  questions  for  self-examination  as  to 
sins  past  and  present  in  thought,  word,  and  deed 
brought  back  the  sense  of  her  body  with  its  load 
of  well-known  memories.  Could  they  be  got  rid 
of  ?  She  could  cast  them  off,  feel  them  sliding 
away  like  Christian's  Burden.  But  was  that  all  ? 
Was  it  being  reconciled  with  your  brother  to 
throw  off  ill-feeling  without  letting  him  know  and 
telling  him  you  were  sorry  for  unkind  deeds  and 
words  ?   Those  you  met  would  find  out  the  change ; 


BACKWATER  135 

but  all  the  others — those  you  had  offended  from 
your  youth  up — all  your  family  ?  Write  to 
them.  A  sense  of  a  checking  of  the  tide  that  had 
seemed  to  flow  through  her  finger-tips  came  with 
this  suggestion,  and  Miriam  knelt  heavily  on  the 
hard  floor,  feeling  the  weight  of  her  well-known 
body.  The  wall-paper  attracted  her  attention 
and  the  honeycomb  pattern  of  the  thick  fringed 
white  counterpane.  She  shut  the  little  book  and 
rose  from  her  knees.  Moving  quickly  about  the 
room,  she  turned  at  random  to  her  washhand 
basin  and  vigorously  rewashed  her  hands  in  its 
soapy  water.  The  Englishman,  she  reflected  as 
she  wasted  the  soap,  puts  a  dirty  shirt  on  a  clean 
body,  and  the  Frenchman  a  clean  shirt  on  a  dirty 
body. 


CHAPTER    V 


MIRIAM  felt  very  proud  of  tall  Miss  Perne 
when  she  met  her  in  the  hall  at  the  be- 
ginning of  her  second  term.  Miss  Perne  had 
kissed  her  and  held  one  of  her  hands  in  two  small 
welcoming  ones,  talking  in  a  gleeful  voice.  "  Well, 
my  dear,"  she  said  at  the  end  of  a  little  pause, 
"  you'll  have  a  clear  evening.  The  gels  do  not 
return  until  to-morrow,  so  you'll  be  able  to  un- 
pack and  settle  yerself  in  comfortably.  Come 
and  sit  with  us  when  ye've  done.  We'll  have 
supper  in  the  sitting-room.  M'yes."  Smiling 
and  laughing  she  turned  eagerly  away.  "  Of 
course.  Miss  Perne,"  said  Miriam  in  a  loud  waver- 
ing voice,  arresting  her,  "  I  enjoyed  my  holidays ; 
but  I  want  to  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  be  back 
here." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Miss  Perne  hilariously,  "  we're 
all  glad." 

There  was  a  little  break  in  her  voice,  and 
136 


BACKWATER  137 

Miriam  saw  that  she  would  have  once  more  taken 
her  in  her  arms. 

"  I  Hke  being  here,"  she  said  hoarsely,  looking 
down,  and  supported  herself  by  putting  two 
trembling  fingers  on  the  hall  table.  She  was 
holding  back  from  the  gnawing  of  the  despair 
that  had  made  her  sick  with  pain  when  she  heard 
once  more  the  jingle- jingle,  plock-plock  of  the 
North  London  trams.  This  strong  feeling  of 
pride  in  Miss  Perne  was  beating  it  down.  "  I'm 
very  glad,  my  dear,"  responded  Miss  Perne  in  a 
quivering  gleeful  falsetto.  '  If  you  can't  have 
what  you  like  you  must  like  what  you  have,'  said 
Miriam  over  and  over  to  herself  as  she  went  with 
heavy  feet  up  the  four  flights  of  stairs. 


A  candle  was  already  burning  in  the  empty 
bedroom.  "  I'm  back.  I'm  back.  It's  all  over," 
she  gasped  as  she  shut  the  door.  "  And  a  jolly 
good  thing  too.  This  is  my  place.  I  can  keep 
myself  here  and  cost  nothing  and  not  interfere 
with  anybody.  It's  just  as  if  I'd  never  been 
away.  It'll  always  be  like  that  now.  Short 
holidays,  gone  in  a  minute,  and  then  the  long 
term.     Getting  out  of  touch  with  everything. 


138  BACKWATER 

things  happening,  knowing  nothing  about  them, 
going  home  like  a  visitor,  and  people  talking  to 
you  about  things  that  are  only  theirs  now  and 
not  wanting  to  hear  about  yours  .  .  .  not  about 
the  little  real  everyday  things  that  give  you  an 
idea  of  anything  but  only  the  startling  things 
that  are  not  important.  You  have  to  think  of 
them  though  to  make  people  interested — awful, 
awful,  awful,  really  only  putting  people  further 
away  afterwards  when  you've  told  the  thing  and 
their  interest  dies  down  and  you  can't  think  of 
anything  else  to  say.  *  Miss  Feme's  hair  is  per- 
fectly black — as  black  as  coal,  and  she's  the 
eldest,  just  fancy.''  Then  everybody  looks  up. 
*  My  room's  downstairs,  the  room  where  I 
teach,  is  in  the  basement.    Directly  breakfast  is 


over 


*  Basement  ?  What  a  pity !  Basement  rooms 
are  awfully  bad,'  and  by  the  time  you  have  stopped 
them  exclaiming  and  are  just  going  to  begin,  you 
see  that  they  are  fidgetting  and  thinking  about 
something  else."  .  .  .  Eve  had  listened  a  little ; 
because  she  wanted  to  tell  everything  about  her 
own  place  and  had  agreed  that  nobody  really 
wanted  to  hear  the  details.  .  .  .  The  landscapes 
from  the  windows  of  the  big  country  house,  all 


BACKWATER  139 

like  pictures  by  Leader,  the  stables  and  laundry, 
a  "  laundry-maid  "  who  was  sixty-live,  the  eldest 
pupil  with  seven  muslin  dresses  in  the  summer 
and  being  scolded  because  she  swelled  out  after 
two  helpings  of  meat  and  two  of  pie  and  cream, 
and  the  youngest  almost  square  in  her  little  covert 
coat  and  with  a  square  face  and  large  blue  eyes  and 
the  puppies  who  went  out  in  a  boat  in  Weston- 
super-Mare  and  were  sea-sick.  .  .  .  Eve  did  not 
seem  to  mind  the  family  being  common.  Eve 
was  changing.  "  They  are  so  jolly  and  strong. 
They  enjoy  life.  They're  like  other  people."  .  .  . 
"  D'you  think  that's  jolly  ?  Would  you  like  to 
be  like  that — like  other  people  ?  "  "  Rather.  I 
mean  to  be."  "  Do  you  ?  "  "  Of  course  it  can't 
be  done  all  at  once.  But  it's  good  for  me  to  be 
there.  It's  awfully  jolly  to  be  in  a  house  with  no 
worry  about  money  and  plenty  of  jolly  food. 
Mrs.  Green  is  so  strong  and  clever.  She  can  do 
anything.  She's  good  for  me,  she  keeps  me 
going."  "  Would  you  like  to  be  like  her  ?  "  "  Of 
course.  They're  all  so  jolly — even  when  they're 
old.  Her  sister's  forty  and  she's  still  pretty  ;  not 
given  up  hope  a  bit."    "  Eve  !  " 

Eve  had  Hstened  ;    but  not  agreed  about  the 
teaching,  about  making  the  girls  see  how  easy  it 


140  BACKWATER 

was  to  get  hold  of  the  things  and  then  letting 
them  talk  about  other  things.  "  I  see  how  you 
do  it,  and  I  see  why  the  girls  obey  you,  of  course." 
Funny.  Eve  thought  it  was  hard  and  inhuman. 
That's  what  she  really  thought. 

Two  newly  purchased  lengths  of  spotted  net 
veiling  were  lying  at  the  top  of  her  lightly  packed 
trunk  partly  folded  in  uncrumpled  tissue  paper. 
She  took  the  crisp  dye-scented  net  very  gently 
into  her  hands,  getting,  sitting  alone  on  the  floor 
by  her  trunk,  the  full  satisfaction  that  had  failed 
her  in  the  shop  with  Harriett's  surprise  at  her 
sudden  desire  flowing  over  the  counter  and  in- 
fecting the  charm  of  baskets  full  of  cheap  stock- 
ings and  common  bright-bordered  handkerchiefs 
some  of  which  had  borders  so  narrow  and  faint 
as  really  hardly  to  show  when  they  were  scrumpled 
up.  "  Veiling,  moddom  ?  Yes,  moddom,"  the 
assistant  had  retorted  when  she  had  asked  for  a 
veil.  "  Wot  on  earth  fower  ?  "  .  .  .  Without 
answering  Harriett  she  had  bought  two.  There 
was  no  need  to  have  bought  two.  One  could  go 
back  in  the  trunk  as  a  store.  They  would  be  the 
beginning  of  gradually  getting  a  *  suitable  outfit,' 
'  things  convenient  for  you.'  She  got  up  to  put 
a  veil  in  the  little  top  drawer  very  carefully  ; 


BACKWATER  141 

trying  it  across  her  face  first.  It  almost  obliter- 
ated her  features  in  the  dim  candle-light.  It 
would  be  the  greatest  comfort  on  winter  walks, 
warm  and  like  a  rampart.  '  You've  no  idea  how 
warm  it  keeps  you,'  she  could  say  if  anybody 
said  anything.  She  arranged  her  clothes  very 
slowly  and  exactly  in  her  half  of  the  chest  of 
drawers.  "  My  appointments  ought  to  be  an 
influence  in  the  room — until  all  my  things  are 
perfectly  refined  I  shan't  be  able  to  influence  the 
girls  as  I  ought.  I  must  begin  it  from  now.  At 
the  end  of  the  term  I  shall  be  stronger.  From 
strength  to  strength."  She  wished  she  could  go 
to  bed  at  once  and  prepare  for  to-morrow  lying 
alone  in  the  dark  with  the  trams  going  up  and 
down  outside  as  they  would  do  night  by  night 
for  the  rest  of  her  life. 

3 

The  nine  o'clock  post  brought  a  letter  from 
Harriett.  Miriam  carried  it  upstairs  after  supper. 
Placing  it  unopened  on  a  chair  by  the  head  of  her 
bed  under  the  gas  bracket  she  tried  to  put  away 
the  warm  dizzy  feeling  it  brought  her  in  an 
elaborate  toilet  that  included  the  placing  in 
readiness  of  everything  she  would  need  for  the 


142  BACKWATER 

morning.  When  all  was  complete  she  was  filled 
with  a  peace  that  promised  to  remain  indefinitely 
as  long  as  everything  she  had  to  do  should  be 
carried  out  with  unhurried  exactitude.  It  could 
be  made  to  become  the  atmosphere  of  her  Ufe. 
It  would  come  nearer  and  nearer  and  she  would 
live  more  and  more  richly  into  it  until  she  had 
grown  like  those  women  who  were  called  blessed. 
.  .  .  She  looked  about  her.  The  plain  room  gave 
her  encouragement.  It  became  the  scene  of 
adventure.  She, tip-toed  about  it  in  her  night- 
gown. All  the  world  would  come  to  her  there. 
Flora  knew.  Flora  was  the  same,  sweeping  the 
floors  and  going  to  bed  in  an  ugly  room  with 
two  other  servants ;  but  she  was  in  it  alone  some- 
times and  knew.  .  .  . 

"  One  verse  to-night  vsdll  be  enough."  Open- 
ing her  Bible  at  random  she  read,  "  And  not  only 
so,  but  we  glory  in  tribulations  also  :  knowing 
that  tribulation  worketh  patience."  Eagerly 
closing  the  volume  she  knelt  down  smiling.  "  Oh 
do  let  tribulation  work  patience  in  me,"  she  mur- 
mured, blushing,  and  got  up  staring  gladly  at  the 
wall  behind  her  bed.  Shaking  her  pillow  length- 
wise against  the  ironwork  head  of  the  bed,  she 
established  herself  with  the  bed-clothe*  neatly 


BACKWATER  143 

arranged,  sitting  up  to  read  Harriett's  letter 
before  turning  out  the  gas : 

"  Toosday  morning — You've  not  gone  yet,  old 
tooral-ooral,  but  I'm  writing  this  because  I  know 
you'll  feel  blue  this  evening,  to  tell  you  not  to. 
Becos,  it's  no  time  to  Easter  and  becos  here's  a 
great  piece  of  news.  The  last  of  the  Neville  Sub- 
scription Dances  comes  in  the  Easter  hoHdays  and 
you^re  to  come.  D'ye  ^ear,  Liza  ?  Gerald  says  if 
you  can't  stump  up  he's  going  to  get  you  a  ticket, 
and  anyhow  you've  got  to  come.  You'll  enjoy  it 
just  as  much  as  you  did  the  first  and  probably 
more,  because  most  of  the  same  people  will  be 
there.  So  Goodni'.  Mind  the  lamp-post. 
Harry.  P'S. — Heaps  of  love,  old  silly.  You're 
just  the  same.  It's  no  bally  good  pretending 
you're  not." 

Miriam  felt  her  heart  writhe  in  her  breast. 
"  Get  thee  behind  me,  Harry,"  she  said,  pushing 
the  letter  under  the  pillow  and  kneeling  up  to 
turn  out  the  gas.  When  she  lay  down  again  her 
mind  was  rushing  on  by  itself.  .  .  . 

4 
Harry  doesn't  reahse  a  bit  how  short  hoHdays 
are.    Easter — nothing.    Just  one  dance  and  never 


144  BACKWATER 

seeing  the  people  again.  I  was  right  just  now. 
I  was  on  the  right  track  then.  I  must  get  back  to 
that.  It's  no  good  giving  way  right  or  left ;  I  must 
make  a  beginning  of  my  own  life.  ...  I  wish  I  had 
been  called  "Patience"  and  had  thin  features. .  .  . 
Adam  Street,  Adelphi.  ..."  Now  do  you  want 
to  be  dancing  out  there  with  one  of  those 
young  fellows,  my  dear  girl — No  ?  That's  a  very 
good  thing  for  me.  Fm  an  old  buffer  who  can't 
manage  more  than  every  other  dance  or  so.  But 
if  you  do  me  the  honour  of  sitting  here  while 
those  young  barbarians  romp  their  Lancers  ?  .  .  . 
Ah,  that  is  excellent — I  want  you  to  talk  to  me. 
You  needn't  mind  me.  Hey  ?  What  ?  I've 
known  that  young  would-be  brother-in-law  of 
yours  for  many  years  and  this  evening  I've  been 
watching  your  face.  Do  you  mind  that,  dear 
girl,  that  I've  watched  your  face  ?  In  all  homage. 
I'm  a  staunch  worshipper  of  womanhood.  I've 
seen  rough  life  as  well  as  suave.  I'm  an  old  gold- 
digger — Ustralia  took  many  years  of  my  life  ; 
but  it  never  robbed  me  of  my  homage  for 
women.  .  .  . 

"  That's  a  mystery  to  me.  How  you've  allowed 
your  young  sister  to  overhaul  you.  Perhaps  you 
have    a    Corydon   hidden   away   somewhere — or 


BACKWATER  145 

don't  think  favourably  of  the  bonds  of  matri- 
mony ?    Is  that  it  ? 

"  You  are  not  one  to  be  easily  happy.  But  that 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  say  you  pity  anyone 
undertaking  to  pass  through  life  at  your  side. 
Don't  let  your  thoughts  and  ideas  allow  you  to 
miss  happiness.  Women  are  made  to  find  and 
dispense  happiness.  Even  intense  women  like 
yourself.  But  you  won't  find  it  an  easy  matter 
to  discover  your  mate. 

"  Have  you  ever  thought  of  committing  your 
ideas  to  paper  ?  There's  a  book  called  '  The 
Confessions  of  a  Woman.'  It  had  a  great  sale 
and  its  composition  occupied  the  authoress  for 
only  six  weeks.  You  could  write  in  your  hoU- 
days. 

"  Think  over  what  I've  told  you,  my  dear,  dear 
girl.  And  don't  forget  old  Bob  Greville's  address. 
You're  eighteen.  He's  only  eight  ;  eight  Adam 
Street.  The  old  Adam.  Waiting  to  hear  from 
the  new  Eve — ^whenever  she's  unhappy." 

He  would  be  there  again,  old  flatterer,  with 
his  steely  blue  eyes  and  that  strong  little 
Dr.  Conelly  —  Conelly  who  held  you  like  a 
vice  and  swung  you  round  and  kept  putting 
you    back  from    him   to    say   things.     "  If  only 


146  BACKWATER 

you  knew  the  refreshment  it  is  to  dance  with 
a  girl  who  can  talk  sense  and  doesn't  giggle- 
.  .  .  Yes  yes  yes,  women  are  physically  incapable 
of  keeping  a  secret.  .  .  .  Meredith,  he's  the  man. 

He  understands  woman  as  no  other  writer " 

And  the  little  dark  man — De  Vigne — ^who  danced 
like  a  snake.  .  .  .  Tired  ?  Divinely  drowsy  ? 
That's  what  I  like.  Don't  talk.  Let  yourself 
go.  Little  snail,  Harriett  called  him.  And  that 
giant,  Conelly's  friend,  whirling  you  round  the 
room  like  a  gust,  with  his  eyes  fixed  far  away 
in  the  distance  and  dropping  you  with  the 
chaperones  at  the  end  of  the  dance.  If  he 
had  suddenly  said  "  Let  yourself  go  "  .  .  .  He 
too  would  have  become  a  snail.  God  has  made 
life  ugly. 

Dear  Mr.  Greville,  dear  Bob.  Do  you  know 
anything  about  a  writer  called  Meredith  ?  If 
you  have  one  of  his  books  I  should  like  to 
read  it.  No.  Dear  Bob,  I'm  simply  wretched. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

5 

Footsteps  sounded  on  the  stairs — the  servants, 
coming  upstairs  to  bed.  No  dancing  for  them. 
Work,    caps    and    aprons.      And    those    strange 


BACKWATER  147 

rooms  upstairs  to  sleep  in  that  nobody  ever  saw. 
Probably  Miss  Perne  went  up  occasionally  to  look 
at  them  and  see  that  they  were  all  right ;  clean 
and  tidy.  .  .  .  They  had  to  go  up  every  night, 
carrying  little  jugs  of  water  and  making  no  noise 
on  the  stairs,  and  come  down  every  morning. 
They  were  the  servants — and  there  would  never 
be  any  dancing.  Nobody  thought  about  them. 
.  .  .  They  could  not  get  away  from  each  other, 
and  cook.  .  .  . 

To  be  a  general  servant  would  be  very  hard 
work.  Perhaps  impossible.  But  there  would  be 
two  rooms,  the  kitchen  at  the  bottom  of  the 
house,  and  a  bedroom  at  the  top,  your  own.  It 
would  not  matter  what  the  family  was  like.  You 
would  look  after  them,  like  children,  and  be  alone 
to  read  and  sleep.  .  .  .  Toothache.  Cheap 
dentists ;  a  red  lamp  "  painless  extractions  "... 
having  to  go  there  before  nine  in  the  morning, 
and  be  alone  in  a  cold  room,  the  dentist  doing 
what  he  thought  best  and  coming  back  to  your 
work  crying  with  pain,  your  head  wrapped  up  in 
a  black  shawl.  Hospitals  ;  being  quite  helpless 
and  grateful  for  wrong  treatment  ;  coming  back 
to  work,  ill.  Sinks  and  slops  .  .  .  quinsey,  all 
alone  .  .  .  growths  .  .  .  consumption. 


148  BACKWATER 

Go  to  sleep.  It  would  be  better  to  think  in 
the  morning.  But  then  this  clear  first  impression 
would  be  gone  and  school  would  begin  and  go  on 
from  hour  to  hour  through  the  term,  mornings 
and  afternoons  and  evenings,  dragging  you  along 
further  and  further  and  changing  you,  months 
and  months  and  years  until  it  was  too  late  to  get 
back  and  there  was  nothing  ahead. 

The  thing  to  remember,  to  keep  in  mind  all 
the  time  was  to  save  money — not  to  spend  a 
single  penny  that  could  be  saved,  to  be  deter- 
mined about  that  so  that  when  the  tempta- 
tion came  you  could  just  hang  on  until  it  was 
past. 

No  fun  in  the  holidays,  no  money  spent  on 
flowers  and  gloves  and  blouses.  Keeping  stiff 
and  sensible  all  the  time.  The  family  of  the  two 
little  Quaker  girls  had  a  home  library,  with  lists, 
an  inventory,  lending  each  other  their  books  and 
talking  about  them,  and  albums  of  pressed  leaves 
and  flowers  with  the  Latin  names,  and  went  on 
wearing  the  same  plain  clothes.  .  .  .  You  had  to 
be  a  certain  sort  of  person  to  do  that. 

It  would  spoil  the  holidays  to  be  like  that  at 
home.  Every  penny  must  be  spent,  if  only  on 
things  for  other  people.     Not  spending  would 


BACKWATER  149 

bring  a  nice  strong  secret  feeling  and  a  horrid 
expression  into  one's  eyes. 

The  only  way  was  to  give  up  your  family  and 
stay  at  your  work,  like  Flora,  and  have  a  box  of 
half-crowns  in  your  drawer.  .  .  .  Spend  and 
always  be  afraid  of  "  rainy  days  " — or  save  and 
never  enjoy  life  at  all. 

But  going  out  now  and  again  in  the  holidays, 
feeling  stiff  and  governessy  and  just  beginning 
to  learn  to  be  oneself  again  when  it  was  time  to 
go  back  was  not  enjoying  life  .  .  .  your  money 
was  spent  and  people  forgot  you  and  you  forgot 
them  and  went  back  to  your  convent  to  begin 
again. 

Save,  save.  Sooner  or  later  saving  must  begin. 
Why  not  at  once.  Harry,  it's  no  good.  I'm  old 
already.  I've  got  to  be  one  of  those  who  have 
to  give  everything  up. 

I  wonder  if  Flora  is  asleep  ? 

That's  settled.  Go  to  sleep.  Get  thee  behind 
me.  Sleep  .  .  .  the  dark  cool  room.  Air  ;  we 
breathe  it  in  and  it  keeps  us  alive.  Everybody 
has  air.  Manna.  As  much  as  you  want,  full 
measure,  pressed  down  and  running  over.  .  .  . 
Wonderful.  There  is  somebody  giving  things, 
whatever  goes  .  .  .  something  left.  .  .  .  Somebody 


150  BACKWATER 

seeing  that  things  are  not  quite  unbearable,  .  .  . 
but  the  pain,  the  pain  all  the  time,  mysterious 
black  pain.  .  .  . 

Into  thy  hands  I  commit  my  spirit.  In  manus 
something.  .  .  .  You  understand  if  nobody  else 
does.  But  why  must  I  be  one  of  the  ones  to  give 
everything  up  ?     Why  do  you  make  me  suffer  so  ? 


CHAPTER    VI 

I 

PIECEMEAL  statements  in  her  letter  home 
brought  Miriam  now  and  again  a  momen- 
tary sense  of  developing  activities,  but  she  did 
not  recognise  the  completeness  of  the  change  in 
her  position  at  the  school  until  half-way  through 
her  second  term  she  found  herself  talking  to  the 
new  pupil  teacher.  She  had  heard  apathetically 
of  her  existence  during  supper-table  conversations 
with  the  Misses  Perne  at  the  beginning  of  the 
term.  She  was  an  Irish  girl  of  sixteen,  one  of  a 
large  family  living  on  the  outskirts  of  Dublin,  and 
would  be  a  boarder,  attending  the  first  class  for 
English  and  earning  pocket  money  by  helping 
with  the  lower  school.  As  the  weeks  went  on 
and  Miriam  grew  accustomed  to  hearing  her 
name — Julia  Doyle — she  began  to  associate  it 
with  an  idea  of  charm  that  brought  her  a  sinking 
of  heart.  She  knew  her  position  in  the  esteem 
of  the  Pernes  was  secure.     But  this  new  young 


152  BACKWATER 

teacher  would  work  strange  miracles  with  the 
girls.  She  would  do  it  quite  easily  and  uncon- 
sciously. The  girls  would  be  easy  with  her 
and  would  laugh  and  one  would  have  to  hear 
them. 

However,  when  at  last  her  arrival  was  near  and 
the  three  ladies  discussed  the  difficulty  of  having 
her  met,  Miriam  plied  them  until  they  reluctantly 
gave  her  permission  to  go,  taking  a  workman's 
train  that  would  bring  her  to  Euston  station  at 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  spent  pacing  the  half- 
dark  platform  exhausted  with  cold  and  excitement 
and  the  monotonously  reiterated  effort  to  imagine 
the  arrival  of  one  of  Mrs.  Hungerford's  heroines 
from  a  train  journey,  Miriam,  whose  costume  had 
been  described  in  a  letter  to  the  girl's  mother, 
was  startled  wandering  amidst  the  vociferous 
passengers  at  the  luggage  end  of  the  newly  arrived 
train  by  a  liquid  colourless  intimate  voice  at  her 
elbow.  "  I  think  I'll  be  right  to  say  how  d'you 
do." 

She  turned  and  saw  a  slender  girl  in  a  middle- 
aged  toque  and  an  ill-cut  old-fashioned  coat  and 
skirt.  What  were  they  to  say  to  each  other, 
two  dowdy  struggling  women  both  in  the  same 


BACKWATER  153 

box  ?  She  must  get  her  to  Banbury  Park  as  quickly 
as  possible.  It  was  dreadful  that  they  should  be 
seen  together  there  on  the  platform  in  their  rag- 
bag clothes.  At  any  rate  they  must  not  talk. 
"  Oh,  I'm  very  pleased  to  see  you.  I'm  glad 
you've  come.  I  suppose  the  train  must  have  been 
late,"  she  said  eagerly. 

"  Ah,  we'll  be  late  I  dare  venture.  Haven't 
an  idea  of  the  hour." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Miriam  emphatically,  "  I'm 
sure  the  train's  late.''^ 

"  Where'U  we  find  a  core  ?  " 

"  What  ?  " 

"  We'll  need  a  core  for  the  luggage." 

"  Oh  yes,  a  cab.  We  must  get  a  cab.  We'd 
better  find  a  porter." 

"  Ah,  I've  a  man  here  seeking  out  my 
things." 

Inside  the  cab  Julia's  face  shone  chalky  white, 
and  Miriam  found  that  her  eyes  looked  like 
Weymouth  Bay — the  sea  in  general,  on  days 
when  clouds  keep  sweeping  across  the  sun.  When 
she  laughed  she  had  dimples  and  the  thick  white 
rims  of  her  eyelids  looked  like  piping  cord  round 
her  eyes.  But  she  was  not  pretty.  There  were 
lines  in  her  cheeks  as  well  as  dimples,  and  there 


154        '        BACKWATER 

was  something  apologetic  in  her  little  gusty  laugh. 
She  laughed  a  good  deal  as  they  started  oif ,  saying 
things,  little  quiet  remarks  that  Miriam  could  not 
understand  and  that  did  not  seem  to  be  answers 
to  her  efforts  to  make  conversation.  Perhaps  she 
was  not  going  the  right  way  to  make  her  talk. 
Perhaps  she  had  not  said  any  of  the  things  she 
thought  she  had  said. 

She  cleared  her  throat  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  thinking  over  a  possible  opening. 

"  I've  never  been  so  glad  over  anything  in  my 
life  as  hearing  you're  one  of  the  teachers,"  said 
Julia  presently. 

"  The  Pernes  call  me  by  my  name,  so  I  suppose 
you  will  too  as  you're  a  teacher,"  said  Miriam 
headlong. 

"  That's  awfully  sweet  of  you,"  replied  Julia 
laughing  and  blushing  a  clear  deep  rose.  "  It 
makes  anyone  feel  at  home.  I'll  be  looking  out 
till  I  hear  it." 

"  It's "  Miriam  laughed.    "  Isn't  it  funny 

that  people  don't  like  saying  their  own  names." 

"  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  about  your  teaching. 
I'm  sure  you're  awf'ly  clever." 

Miriam  gave  her  a  list  of  the  subjects  she  taught 
in  the  lower  school. 


BACKWATER  155 

"  You  know  all  there  is  to  know." 

"  Oh  well,  and  then  I  take  the  top  girls  now 
for  German  and  the  second  class  for  French 
reading,  and  two  arithmetic  classes  in  the  upper 
school,  and  a  '  shell '  of  two  very  stupid  girls 
to  help  with  their  College  of  Preceptors." 

"  You're  frightening  me." 


Miriam  looked  out  of  the  cab  window,  hardly- 
hearing  Julia's  next  remark.  The  drab  brick 
walls  of  King's  Cross  station  were  coming  towards 
them.  When  they  had  got  themselves  and  Julia's 
luggage  out  of  the  cab  and  into  the  train  for 
Banbury  Park  she  was  still  pondering  uneasily 
over  her  own  dislike  of  appearing  as  a  successful 
teacher.  This  stranger  saw  her  only  as  a  teacher. 
That  was  what  she  had  become.  If  she  was  really 
a  teacher  now,  just  that  in  life,  it  meant  that  she 
must  decide  at  once  whether  she  really  meant  to 
teach  always.  Everyone  now  would  think  of  her 
as  a  teacher  ;  as  someone  who  was  never  going  to 
do  anything  else,  when  really  she  had  not  even 
begun  to  think  about  doing  any  of  the  things  that 
professional  teachers  had  to  do.  She  was  not 
qualifying  herself  for  examinations  in  her  spare 


156  BACKWATER 

time  as  her  predecessor  had  done.  Supposing 
she  did.  This  girl  Julia  would  certainly  expect 
her  to  be  doing  so.  What  then  ?  If  she  were 
to  work  very  hard  and  also  develop  her  character, 
when  she  was  fifty  she  would  be  like  Miss  Cramp  ; 
good  enough  to  be  a  special  visiting  teacher, 
giving  just  a  few  lectures  a  week  at  several 
schools,  talking  in  a  sad  voice,  feeling  ill  and 
sad,  having  a  yellow  face  and  faded  hair  and  not 
enough  saved  to  live  on  when  she  was  too  old  to 
work.  Prospect,  said  the  noisy  train.  That  was 
it,  there  was  no  prospect  in  it.  There  was  no 
prospect  in  teaching.  What  was  there  a  prospect 
in,  going  along  in  this  North  London  train  with 
this  girl  who  took  her  at  her  word  ? 

She  turned  eagerly  to  Julia  who  was  saying 
something  and  laughing  unconcernedly  as  she 
said  it.  "  If  you'd  like  to  know  what  it  is  I've 
come  over  for  I'll  tell  you  at  once.  I've  come 
over  to  learn  Chopang's  Funeral  March.  It's  all 
I  think  about.  When  I  can  play  Chopang's 
Funeral  March  I'll  not  call  the  Queen  me  aunt." 

3 
"  Well,  my  dear  child,  I'm  sure  I  wish  I  could 
arrange  your  life  for  ye,"  said  Miss  Haddie  that 


BACKWATER  157 

evening.  She  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
schoolroom  table,  having  come  in  at  ten  o'clock 
to  turn  out  the  gas  and  found  Miriam  sitting 
unoccupied.  The  room  was  cold  and  close  with 
the  long-burning  gas,  and  Miriam  had  turned 
upon  her  with  a  scornful  half  laugh  when  she 
had  playfully  exclaimed  at  finding  her  there  so 
late.  Miss  Haddie  was  obviously  still  a  little 
excited.  She  had  presided  at  schoolroom  tea 
and  Julia  had  filled  the  room  with  Dublin — the 
bay,  the  streets,  the  jarveys  and  their  outside  cars, 
her  journey,  the  channel  boat,  her  surprise  at 
England. 

"  Eh,  what's  the  matter,  Miriam,  my  dear  ?  " 
For  some  time  Miriam  had  parried  her  questions, 
fiercely  demanding  that  her  mood  should  be 
understood  without  a  clue.  Presently  they  had 
slid  into  an  irritated  discussion  of  the  respective 
values  of  sleep  before  and  sleep  after  midnight, 
in  the  midst  of  which  Miriam  had  said  savagely, 
"  I  wish  to  goodness  I  knew  what  to  do  about 
things." 

Miss  Haddie's  kindly  desire  gave  her  no  relief. 
What  did  she  mean  but  the  hopelessness  of  im- 
agining that  anybody  could  do  anything  about 
anything.     Nobody  could  ever  understand  what 


158  BACKWATER 

anyone  else  really  wanted.  Only  some  people 
were  fortunate.  Miss  Haddie  was  one  of  the 
fortunate  ones.  She  had  her  share  in  the  school 
and  many  wealthy  relatives  and  the  very  best 
kind  of  good  clothes  and  a  good  deal  of  strange 
old-fashioned  jewelry.  And  whatever  happened 
there  was  money  and  her  sisters  and  relatives  to 
look  after  her  without  feeling  it  a  burden  because 
of  the  expense.  And  there  she  sat  at  the  table 
looking  at  what  she  thought  she  could  see  in 
another  person's  life. 

"  If  only  one  knew  in  the  least  what  one  ought 
to  do,"  said  Miriam  crossly. 

Miss  Haddie  began  speaking  in  a  halting  mur- 
mur, and  Miriam  rushed  on  with  flaming  face. 
"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  go  on  teaching  all  my 
life,  and  I  can't  think  how  on  earth  I'm  going  to 
do  it.  I  don't  see  how  I  can  work  in  the  evenings, 
my  eyes  get  so  tired.  If  you  don't  get  certificates 
there's  no  prospect.  And  even  if  I  did  my 
throat  is  simply  agonies  at  the  end  of  each 
morning." 

"  Eh  !  my  dear  child  !  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that. 
Why  have  ye  taken  to  that  ?  Is  it  something 
fresh  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  my  throat  always  used  to  get  tired. 


BACKWATER  159 

Mother's  is  the  same.  We  can't  either  of  us  talk 
for  ten  minutes  without  feehng  it.  It's  perfectly 
awful." 

"  But,  my  dear,  oughtn't  ye  to  see  someone — 
have  some  advice  ?  I  mean  ye  ought  to  see  a 
doctor." 

Miriam  glanced  at  Miss  Haddie's  concerned 
face  and  glanced  away  with  a  flash  of  hatred. 
"  Oh  no.    I  s'pose  I  shall  manage." 

"  D'ye  think  yer  wise — letting  it  go  on  ?  " 

Miriam  made  no  reply. 

"  Well  now,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Haddie, 
getting  down  off  the  table,  "  I  think  it's  time  ye 
went  to  bed." 

"  Phm,"  said  Miriam  impatiently,  "  I  suppose 
it  is." 

Miss  Haddie  sat  down  again.  "  I  wish  I  could 
help  ye,  my  dear,"  she  said  gently. 

"  Oh,  no  one  can  do  that,"  said  Miriam  in  a 
hard  voice. 

"  Oh  yes,"  murmured  Miss  Haddie  cheerfully, 
"  there's  One  who  can." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Miriam,  tugging  a  thread  out 
of  the  fraying  edge  of  the  table  cover.  "  But  it's 
practically  impossible  to  discover  what  on  earth 
they  mean  you  to  do." 


i6o  BACKWATER 

"  N — aiche,  my  dear,"  she  said  in  an  angry- 
guttural,  "  ye're  always  led." 

Miriam  tugged  at  the  thread  and  bit  her  lips. 

"  Why  do  ye  suppose  ye'll  go  on  teaching  all 
yer  life  ?    Perhaps  ye'll  marry." 

"  Oh  no." 

"  Ye  can't  tell." 

"  Oh,  I  never  shall — in  any  case  now." 

"  Have  ye  quarrelled  with  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  /)jw,"  said  Miriam  roundly,  dig- 
ging a  pencil  point  between  the  grainings  of 
the  table-cover.  "  It's  they,  I  think,  goodness 
knows,  I  don't  know ;  it's  so  perfectly  extra- 
ordinary." 

"  You're  a  very  funny  young  lady." 

"  Well,  I  shan't  marry  now  anyhow." 

"  Have  ye  refused  somebody  ?  " 

"  Oh  well — there  was  someone — ^who  went 
away — went  to  America — ^who  was  coming  back 
to  see  me  when  he  came  back " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  he's  handed  in  his  checks.'* 

"  Eh,  my  dear — I  don't  understand,"  said  Miss 
Haddie  thwarted  and  frowning. 

"  Aw,"  said  Miriam,  jabbing  the  table,  "  kicked 
the  bucket." 


BACKWATER  i6i 

"  My  dear  child,  you  use  such  strange  language 
— I  can't  follow  ye." 

"  Oh  well,  you  see,  he  went  to  America.  It 
was  in  New  York.  I  heard  about  it  in  January. 
He  caught  that  funny  illness.  You  know.  In- 
fluenza— and  died." 

"  Eh,  my  poor  dear  child,  I'm  very  sorry  for 
ye.    Ye  do  seem  to  have  troubles." 

"  Ah  well,  yes,  and  then  the  queer  thing  is 
that  he  was  really  only  the  friend  of  my  real 
friend.  And  it  was  my  real  friend  who  told 
me  about  it  and  gave  me  a  message  he  sent 
me  and  didn't  like  it,  of  course.  Natur- 
ally." 

"  Well  really,  Miriam,"  said  Miss  Haddie, 
blushing,  with  a  little  laugh  half  choked  by  a 
cough. 

"  Oh  yes,  then  of  course  one  meets  people — at 
dances.    It's  appalling." 

"  I  wish  I  understood  ye,  my  dear." 

"  Oh  well,  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  now. 
I  shall  hardly  ever  meet  anybody  now." 

Miss  Haddie  pondered  over  the  table  with 
features  that  worked  slightly  as  she  made  little 
murmuring  sounds.  "  Eh  no.  Ye  needn't  think 
that.     Ye  shouldn't  think  like  that.  .  .  .  Things 


i62  BACKWATER 

happen  sometimes  .  .  .  just  when  ye  least  expect 
it." 

"  Not  to  me." 

"  Oh,  things  will  happen  to  ye — never  fear. 
.  .  .  Now,  my  dear  child,  trot  along  with  ye  off 
to  bed." 

Miriam  braced  herself  against  Miss  Haddie's 
gentle  shaking  of  her  shoulders  and  the  quiet  kiss 
on  her  forehead  that  followed  it. 


The  strengthening  of  her  intimacy  with  Miss 
Haddie  was  the  first  of  the  many  changes  brought 
to  Miriam  by  Julia  Doyle.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  spring  term  her  two  room  mates  were  trans- 
ferred to  Julia's  care.  The  two  back  rooms  be- 
came a  little  hive  of  girls  over  which  Julia  seemed 
to  preside.  She  handled  them  all  easily.  There 
was  rollicking  and  laughter  in  the  back  bedrooms, 
but  never  any  sign  that  the  girls  were  "  going  too 
far,"  and  their  escapades  were  not  allowed  to  reach 
across  the  landing.  Her  large  front  room  was, 
Miriam  realised  as  the  term  went  on,  being 
secretly  and  fiercely  guarded  by  Julia. 

The  fabric  of  the  days  too  had  changed.    All 


BACKWATER  163 

day — during  the  midday  constitutional  when  she 
often  found  Julia  at  her  side  walking  in  her 
curious  springy  lounging  way  and  took  the  walk 
in  a  comforting  silence  resting  her  weary  throat, 
during  the  evenings  of  study  and  the  unemployed 
intervals  of  the  long  Sundays — ^Julia  seemed  to 
come  between  her  and  the  girls.  She  mastered 
them  all  with  her  speech  and  laughter.  Miriam 
felt  that  when  they  were  all  together  she  was 
always  in  some  hidden  way  on  the  alert.  She 
never  jested  with  Miriam  but  when  they  were 
alone,  and  rarely  then.  Usually  she  addressed 
her  in  a  low  tone  and  as  if  half  beside  herself 
with  some  overpowering  emotion.  It  was  owing 
too  to  Julia's  presence  in  the  school  that  an 
unexpected  freedom  came  to  Miriam  every  day 
during  the  hour  between  afternoon  school  and 
tea-time. 

Persuaded  by  the  rapid  increase  towards  the  end 
of  the  winter  term  of  the  half-feverish  exhaus- 
tion visiting  her  at  the  end  of  each  day  she  had 
confided  in  her  mother,  who  had  wept  at  this 
suggestion  of  an  attack  on  her  health  and  called 
in  the  family  doctor.  "  More  air,"  he  said  testily, 
"  air  and  movement."  Miriam  repeated  this  to 
Miss  Perne,  who  at  once  arranged  that  she  should 


i64  BACKWATER 

be  free  if  she  chose  to  go  out  every  afternoon  be- 
tween school  and  tea-time. 

At  first  she  went  into  the  park  every  day.  It 
was  almost  empty  during  the  week  at  that  hour. 
The  cricket  green  was  sparsely  decked  with  chil- 
dren and  their  maids.  A  few  strollers  were  left 
along  the  poplar  avenue  and  round  the  asphalt- 
circled  lake  ;  but  away  on  the  further  slopes 
usually  avoided  in  the  midday  walks  because  the 
girls  found  them  oppressive,  Miriam  discovered 
the  solitary  spring  air.  Day  by  day  she  went  as 
if  by  appointment  to  meet  it.  It  was  the  same 
wandering  eloquent  air  she  had  known  from  the 
beginning  of  things.  Whilst  she  walked  along  the 
little  gravel  pathways  winding  about  over  the 
clear  green  slopes  in  the  flood  of  afternoon  light 
it  stayed  with  her.  The  day  she  had  just  passed 
through  was  touched  by  it  ;  it  added  a  warm 
promise  to  the  hours  that  lay  ahead — tea-time, 
the  evening's  reading,  the  possible  visit  of  Miss 
Haddie,  the  quiet  of  her  solitary  room,  the 
coming  of  sleep. 

One  day  she  left  the  pathways  and  strayed 
amongst  pools  of  shadow  lying  under  the  great 
trees.  As  she  approached  the  giant  trunks  and 
the  detail  of  their  shape  and  colour  grew  clearer 


BACKWATER  165 

her  breathing  quickened.  She  felt  her  prim  bear- 
ing about  her  Hke  a  cloak.  The  reality  she  had 
found  was  leaving  her  again.  Looking  up  un- 
easily into  the  forest  of  leaves  above  her  head  she 
found  them  strange.  She  walked  quickly  back 
into  the  sunlight,  gazing  reproachfully  at  the 
trees.  There  they  were  as  she  had  always  known 
them  ;  but  between  them  and  herself  was  her 
governess'  veil,  close  drawn,  holding  them 
sternly  away  from  her.  The  warm  comforting 
communicative  air  was  round  her,  but  she  could 
not  recover  its  secret.  She  looked  fearfully  about 
her.  To  get  away  somewhere  by  herself  every 
day  would  not  be  enough.  If  that  was  all  she 
could  have,  there  would  come  a  time  when  there 
would  be  nothing  anywhere.  For  a  day  or  two 
she  came  out  and  walked  feverishly  about  in 
other  parts  of  the  park,  resentfully  questioning 
the  empty  vistas.  One  afternoon,  far  away,  but 
coming  towards  her  as  if  in  answer  to  her  question, 
was  the  figure  of  a  man  walking  quickly.  For  a 
moment  her  heart  cried  out  to  him.  If  he  would 
come  straight  on  and,  understanding,  would  walk 
into  her  life  and  she  could  face  things  knowing 
that  he  was  there,  the  light  would  come  back  and 
would  stay  until  the  end — and  there  would  be 


i66  BACKWATER 

other  lives,  on  and  on.  She  stood  transfixed, 
trembling.  He  grew  more  and  more  distinct  and 
she  saw  a  handbag  and  the  outline  of  a  bowler 
hat ;  a  North  London  clerk  hurrying  home  to 
tea.  With  bent  head  she  turned  away  and 
dragged  her  shamed  heavy  limbs  rapidly  towards 
home. 

5 

Early  in  May  came  a  day  of  steady  rain.  En- 
veloped in  a  rain-cloak  and  sheltered  under  her 
lowered  umbrella  she  ventured  down  the  hill 
•towards  the  shops.  Near  the  railway  arch  the 
overshadowed  street  began  to  be  crowded  with 
jostling  figures.  People  were  pouring  from  the 
city  trams  at  the  terminus  and  coming  out  of 
the  station  entrance  in  a  steady  stream.  Hard 
intent  faces,  clashing  umbrellas,  the  harsh  snarl- 
ing monotone  of  the  North  London  voice  gave 
her  the  feeling  of  being  an  intruder.  Everything 
seemed  to  wonder  what  she  was  doing  down  there 
instead  of  being  at  home  in  the  schoolroom.  A 
sudden  angry  eye  above  a  coarse  loudly  talking 
mouth  all  but  made  her  turn  to  go  with  instead 
of  against  the  tide  ;  but  she  pushed  blindly  on 
and   through   and   presently   found  herself  in   a 


BACKWATER  167 

quiet  side  street  just  off  the  station  road  looking 
into  a  shop  window.  ..."  i  lb.  super  cream- 
laid  boudoir  note — with  envelopes — is."  Her 
eyes  moved  about  the  window  from  packet  to 
packet,  set  askew  and  shining  with  freshness.  If 
she  had  not  brought  so  much  note-paper  from 
home  she  could  have  bought  some.  Perhaps  she 
could  buy  a  packet  as  a  Christmas  present  for  Eve 
and  have  it  in  her  top  drawer  all  the  time.  But 
there  was  plenty  of  note-paper  at  home.  She 
half  turned  to  go,  and  turning  back  fastened  her- 
self more  closely  against  the  window  meaning- 
lessly  reading  the  inscription  on  each  packet. 
Standing  back  at  last  she  still  lingered.  A  little 
blue-painted  tin  plate  sticking  out  from  the 
side  of  the  window  announced  in  white  letters 
"  Carter  Paterson."  Miriam  dimly  wondered  at 
the  connection.  Underneath  it  hung  a  card- 
board printed  in  ink,  "  Circulating  Library,  2d. 
weekly."  This  was  still  more  mysterious.  She 
timidly  approached  the  door  and  met  the  large 
pleasant  eye  of  a  man  standing  back  in  the  door- 
way. 

"  Is  there  a  library  here  ?  "  she  said  with  beat- 
ing heart. 

She  stood  so  long  reading  and  re-reading  half 


i68  BACKWATER 

familiar  titles,  "  Cometh  up  as  a  Flower,"  "  Not 
like  other  Girls,"  "  The  Heir  of  RedcHffe,"  books 
that  she  and  Harriett  had  read  and  books  that  she 
felt  were  of  a  similar  type,  that  tea  was  already 
on  the  schoolroom  table  when  she  reached  Words- 
worth House  with  an  unknown  volume  by  Mrs. 
Hungerford  under  her  arm.  Hiding  it  upstairs, 
she  came  down  to  tea  and  sat  recovering  her  com- 
posure over  her  paper-covered  "  Cinq  Mars,"  a 
relic  of  the  senior  Oxford  examination  now  grown 
suddenly  rich  and  amazing.  To-day  it  could  not 
hold  her.  "  The  Madcap  "  was  upstairs,  and  be- 
yond it  an  unlimited  supply  of  twopenny  volumes 
and  Ouida.  Red-bound  volumes  of  Ouida  on  the 
bottom  shelf  had  sent  her  eyes  quickly  back  to 
the  safety  of  the  upper  rows.  Through  the  whole 
of  tea-time  she  was  quietly  aware  of  a  discussion 
going  on  at  the  back  of  her  mind  as  to  who 
it  was  who  had  told  her  that  Ouida's  books 
were  bad ;  evil  books.  She  remembered  her 
father*8  voice  saying  that  Ouida  was  an  extremely 
able  woman,  quite  a  politician.  Then  of  course 
her  books  were  all  right,  for  grown-up  people. 
It  must  have  been  someone  at  a  dance  who  had 
made  her  curious  about  them,  someone  she  had 
forgotten.      In   any   case,   whatever   they  were. 


BACKWATER  169 

there  was  no  one  now  to  prevent  her  reading 
them  if  she  chose.  She  would  read  them  if  she 
chose.  Write  to  Eve  about  it  first.  No.  Cer- 
tainly not.  Eve  might  say  "  Better  not,  my  dear. 
You  will  regret  it  if  you  do.  You  won't  be  the 
same."  Eve  was  different.  She  must  not  be  led 
by  Eve  in  any  case.  She  must  leave  off  being  led 
by  Eve — or  anybody.  The  figures  sitting  round 
the  table,  bent  over  their  books,  quietly  disin- 
clined for  conversation  or  mischief  under  the 
shrewd  eye  of  Miss  Haddie,  suddenly  looked 
exciting  and  mysterious.  But  perhaps  the  man 
in  the  shop  would  be  shocked.  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  ask  for  them  ;  unless  she  could  pre- 
tend she  did  not  know  anything  about  them. 


For  the  last  six  weeks  of  the  summer  term  she 
sat  up  night  after  night  propped  against  her  up- 
right pillow  and  bolster  under  the  gas  jet  reading 
her  twopenny  books  in  her  silent  room.  Almost 
every  night  she  read  until  two  o'clock.  She  felt 
at  once  that  she  was  doing  wrong  ;  that  the  secret 
novel-reading  was  a  thing  she  could  not  confess, 
even  to  Miss  Haddie.    She  was  spending  hours  of 


lyo  BACKWATER 

the  time  that  was  meant  for  sleep,  for  restful 
preparation  for  the  next  day's  work,  in  a  "  vicious 
circle  "  of  self-indulgence.  It  was  sin.  She  had 
read  somewhere  that  sin  promises  a  satisfaction 
that  it  is  unable  to  fulfil.  But  she  found  when 
the  house  was  still  and  the  trams  had  ceased 
jingling  up  and  down  outside  that  she  grew  steady 
and  cool  and  that  she  rediscovered  the  self  she 
had  known  at  home,  where  the  refuge  of  silence 
and  books  was  always  open.  Perhaps  that  self, 
leaving  others  to  do  the  practical  things,  erecting 
a  little  wall  of  unapproachability  between  her- 
self and  her  family  that  she  might  be  free  to 
dream  alone  in  corners  had  always  been  wrong. 
But  it  was  herself,  the  nearest  most  intimate  self 
she  had  known.  And  the  discovery  that  it  was 
not  dead,  that  her  six  months  in  the  German 
school  and  the  nine  long  months  during  which 
Banbury  Park  life  had  drawn  a  veil  even  over  the 
little  slices  of  holiday  freedom,  had  not  even 
touched  it,  brought  her  warm  moments  of  reas- 
surance. It  was  not  perhaps  a  "  good  "  self,  but 
it  was  herself,  her  own  familiar  secretly  happy 
and  rejoicing  self — not  dead.  Her  hands  lying 
on  the  coverlet  knew  it.  They  were  again  at 
these  moments  her  own  old  hands,  holding  very 


BACKWATER  171 

firmly  to  things  that  no  one  might  touch  or  even 
approach  too  nearly,  things,  everything,  the  great 
thing  that  would  some  day  communicate  itself 
to  someone  through  these  secret  hands  with  the 
strangely  thrilling  finger-tips.  Holding  them  up 
in  the  gaslight  she  dreamed  over  their  wisdom. 
They  knew  everything  and  held  their  secret,  even 
from  her.  She  eyed  them,  communed  with  them, 
passionately  trusted  them.  They  were  not 
*'  artistic  "  or  "  clever  "  hands.  The  fingers  did 
not  "  taper  "  nor  did  the  outstretched  thumb 
curl  back  on  itself  like  a  frond — ^like  Nan  Babing- 
ton's.  They  were  long,  the  tips  squarish  and 
firmly  padded,  the  palm  square  and  bony  and 
supple,  and  the  large  thumb  joint  stood  away 
from  the  rest  of  the  hand  like  the  thumb  joint 
of  a  man.  The  right  hand  was  larger  than  the 
left,  kindlier,  friendlier,  wiser.  The  expres- 
sion of  the  left  hand  was  less  reassuring.  It 
was  a  narrower,  lighter  hand,  more  flexible, 
less  sensitive  and  more  even  in  its  touch — more 
smooth  and  manageable  in  playing  scales.  It 
seemed  to  belong  to  her  much  less  than  the  right ; 
but  when  the  two  were  firmly  interlocked  they 
made  a  pleasant  curious  whole,  the  right  clasping 
more   firmly,  its   thumb   always   uppermost,   its 


172  BACKWATER 

fingers  separated  firmly  over  the  back  of  the 
left  palm,  the  left  hand  clinging,  its  fingers 
close  together  against  the  hard  knuckles  of  the 
right. 

It  was  only  when  she  was  alone  and  in  the 
intervals  of  quiet  reading  that  she  came  into 
possession  of  her  hands.  With  others  they  op- 
pressed her  by  their  size  and  their  lack  of  feminine 
expressiveness.  No  one  could  fall  in  love  with 
such  hands.  Loving  her,  someone  might  come  to 
tolerate  them.  They  were  utterly  unlike  Eve's 
plump,  white,  inflexible  little  palms.  But  they 
were  her  strength.  They  came  between  her  and 
the  world  of  women.  They  would  be  her  com- 
panions until  the  end.  They  would  wither.  But 
the  bones  would  not  change.  The  bones  would 
be  laid  unchanged  and  wise,  in  her  grave. 


7 

She  began  her  readings  with  Rosa  Nouchette 
Carey.  Reading  her  at  home,  after  tea  by  the 
breakfast-room  fireside  with  red  curtains  drawn 
and  the  wind  busy  outside  amongst  the  ever- 
green shrubs  under  the  window,  it  had  seemed 
quite  possible  that  life  might  suddenly  develop 


BACKWATER  173 

into  the  thing  the  writer  described.  From  some- 
where would  come  an  adoring  man  who  beHeved 
in  heaven  and  eternal  life.  One  would  grow 
very  good  ;  and  after  the  excitement  and  interest 
had  worn  off  one  would  go  on,  v^th  firm  happy- 
lips  being  good  and  going  to  church  and  making 
happy  matches  for  other  girls  or  quietly  disap- 
proving of  everybody  who  did  not  believe  just 
in  the  same  way  and  think  about  good  girls  and 
happy  marriages  and  heaven,  keeping  such  people 
outside.  Smiling,  wise  and  happy  inside  in  the 
warm  ;  growing  older,  but  that  did  not  matter 
because  the  adored  man  was  growing  older 
too. 

Now  it  had  all  changed.  The  quiet  house  and 
fireside,  gravity,  responsibility,  a  greying  husband, 
his  reading  profile  always  dear,  both  of  them 
going  on  towards  heaven,  "  all  tears  wiped  away," 
tears  and  laughter  of  relief  after  death,  still 
seemed  desirable,  but  "  women."  .  .  .  Those 
awful,  awful  women,  she  murmured  to  herself 
stirring  in  bed.  I  never  thought  of  all  the  awful 
women  there  would  be  in  such  a  life.  I  only 
thought  of  myself  and  the  house  and  the  garden 
and  the  man.  What  an  escape  !  Good  God  in 
heaven,  what  an  escape !     Far  better  to  be  alone 


174  BACKWATER 

and  suffering  and  miserable  here  in  the  school, 
alive.  .  .  . 

Then  there'll  be  whole  heaps  of  books,  millions 
of  books  I  can't  read — perhaps  nearly  all  the 
books.  She  took  one  more  volume  of  Rosa,  in 
hope,  and  haunted  its  deeps  of  domesticity. 
"  I've  gone  too  far."  ...  If  Rosa  Nouchette 
Carey  knew  me,  she'd  make  me  one  of  the  bad 
characters  who  are  turned  out  of  the  happy 
homes.  I'm  some  sort  of  bad  unsimple  woman. 
Oh,  damn,  damn,  she  sighed.  I  don't  know. 
Her  hands  seemed  to  mock  her,  barring  her 
way. 

8 

Then  came  a  series  of  Mrs.  Hungerford — all 
the  volumes  she  had  not  already  read.  She  read 
them  eagerly,  inspirited.  The  gabled  country 
houses,  the  sunlit  twilit  endless  gardens,  the  deep 
orchards,  the  falling  of  dew,  the  mists  of  the 
summer  mornings,  masses  of  flowers  in  large 
rooms  with  carved  oaken  furniture,  wide  stair- 
cases with  huge  painted  windows  throwing  down 
strange  patches  of  light  on  shallow  thickly  car- 
petted  stairs.  These  were  the  things  she  wanted  ; 
gay  house-parties,  people  with  beautiful  wavering 


BACKWATER  175 

complexions  and  masses  of  shimmering  hair 
catching  the  light,  fragrant  filmy  diaphanous 
dresses  ;  these  were  the  people  to  whom  she  be- 
longed— a  year  or  two  of  life  like  that,  dancing 
and  singing  in  and  out  the  houses  and  gardens  ; 
and  then  marriage.  Living  alone,  sadly  estranged, 
in  the  house  of  a  husband  who  loved  her  and 
with  whom  she  was  in  love,  both  of  them  think- 
ing that  the  other  had  married  because  they  had 
lost  their  way  in  a  thunderstorm  or  spent  the 
night  sitting  up  on  a  mountain-top  or  because  of 
a  clause  in  a  will,  and  then  one  day  both  finding 
out  the  truth.  .  .  .  That  is  what  is  meant  by 
happiness  .  .  .  happiness.  But  these  things  could 
only  happen  to  people  with  money.  She  would 
never  have  even  the  smallest  share  of  that  sort  of 
life.  She  might  get  into  it  as  a  governess — some 
of  Mrs.  Hungerford's  heroines  were  governesses 
— but  they  had  clouds  of  hair  and  were  pathetic- 
ally slender  and  appealing  in  their  deep  mourning. 
She  read  volume  after  volume,  forgetting  the 
titles — the  single  word  '  Hungerford  '  on  a  cover 
inflamed  her.  Her  days  became  an  irrelevance 
and  her  evenings  a  dreamy  sunlit  indulgence. 
Now  and  again  she  wondered  what  Julia  Doyle 
would  think  if  she  knew  what  she  was  reading 


176  BACKWATER 

and  how  it  affected  her — ^whether  she  would  still 
watch  her  in  the  way  she  did  as  she  went  about 
her  work  pale  and  tired,  whether  she  would  go  on 
guarding  her  so  fiercely  ? 

9 

At  last  exasperated,  tired  of  the  mocking  park, 
the  mocking  happy  books,  she  went  one  day  to 
the  lower  shelf,  and  saying  very  calmly,  "  I  think 
I'll  take  a  Ouida,"  drew  out  "  Under  Two  Flags " 
with  a  trembling  hand.  The  brown-eyed  man 
seemed  to  take  an  interminable  time  noting  the 
number  of  the  book,  and  when  at  last  she  got 
into  the  air  her  limbs  were  heavy  with  sadness. 
That  night  she  read  until  three  o'clock  and  finished 
the  volume  the  next  night  at  the  same  hour, 
sitting  upright  when  the  last  word  was  read, 
refreshed.  From  that  moment  the  red-bound 
volumes  became  the  centre  of  her  life.  She  read 
"  Moths  "  and  "  In  Maremma  "  slowly  word  by 
word,  with  an  increasing  steadiness  and  certainty. 
The  mere  sitting  with  the  text  held  before  her 
eyes  gave  her  the  feeling  of  being  strongly  con- 
fronted. The  strange  currents  which  came  when- 
ever she  was  alone  and  at  ease  flowing  to  the  tips 
of  her  fingers,  seemed  to  flow  into  the  book  as 


BACKWATER  177 

she  held  it  and  to  be  met  and  satisfied.  As  soon 
as  the  door  was  shut  and  the  gas  ahght,  she  would 
take  the  precious,  solid  trusty  volume  from  her 
drawer  and  fling  it  on  her  bed,  to  have  it  under 
her  eyes  while  she  undressed.  She  ceased  to  read 
her  Bible  and  to  pray.  Ouida,  Ouida,  she  would 
muse  with  the  book  at  last  in  her  hands.  I  want 
bad  things — strong  bad  things.  ...  It  doesn't 
matter,  Italy,  the  sky,  bright  hot  landscapes, 
things  happening.  I  don't  care  what  people 
think  or  say.  I  am  older  than  anyone  here  in 
this  house.    I  am  myself. 


10 

...  If  you  had  loved,  if  you  loved,  you  could 
die,  laughing,  gasping  out  your  life  on  a  battle- 
field, fading  by  inches  in  a  fever-swamp,  or 
living  on,  going  about  seamed  and  old  and  ill. 
Whatever  happened  to  you,  if  you  had  cared, 
fearing  nothing,  neither  death  nor  hell.  God 
came.  He  would  welcome  and  forgive  you. 
Life,  struggle,  pain.  Happy  laughter  with 
twisted  lips — all  waiting  somewhere  outside, 
beyond.  It  would  come.  It  must  be  made  to 
come. 


178  BACKWATER 

II 

Who  was  there  in  the  world  ?  Ted  had  failed. 
Ted  belonged  to  the  Rosa  Nouchette  Carey  world. 
He  would  marry  one  of  those  women.  Bob  knew. 
Bob  Greville's  profile  was  real.  Sitting  on  the 
wide  stairs  at  the  Easter  Subscription  Dance,  his 
soft  fine  white  hair  standing  up,  the  straight  line 
of  polished  forehead,  the  fine  nose  and  compressed 
lips,  the  sharp  round  chin  with  the  three  firm 
folds  underneath  it,  the  point  of  his  collar  cutting 
across  them,  the  keen  blue  eyes  looking  straight 
out  ahead,  across  Australia.  The  whole  face 
listening.  He  had  been  listening  to  her  nearly 
all  the  evening.  Now  and  again  quiet  questions. 
She  could  go  on  talking  to  him  whenever  she 
liked.  Go  to  him  and  go  on  talking,  and  talking, 
safely,  being  understood.  Talking  on  and  on. 
But  he  was  old.  Living  old  and  alone  in  chambers 
in  Adam  Street — Adelphi. 

12 

One  day  just  before  the  end  of  the  summer 
term.  Miss  Perne  asked  Miriam  to  preside  over 
the  large  schoolroom  for  the  morning.  The  first 
and  second-class  girls  were  settled  there  at  their 


BACKWATER  179 

written  examination  in  English  history.  Round- 
ing the  schoolroom  door  she  stood  for  a  moment 
in  the  doorway.  The  sunlight  poured  in  through 
the  wide  bay  window  and  the  roomful  of  quiet 
girls  seemed  like  a  field.  Jessie  Wheeler's  voice 
broke  the  silence.  "  It's  the  Hen,"  she  shouted 
gently.  "  It's  the  blessed  Hen !  Oh,  come  on. 
You  going  to  sit  with  us  ?  " 

"  Yes.    Be  quiet,"  said  Miriam. 

"Oh,  thank  goodness,"  groaned  Jessie,  sup- 
ported by  groans  and  murmurs  from  all  over  the 
room. 

"  Be  quiet,  girls,  and  get  on  with  your  papers," 
said  Miriam  in  a  tone  of  acid  detachment  from 
the  top  of  her  tide.  She  sat  feeling  that  her  arms 
were  round  the  entire  roomful,  that  each  girl 
struggling  alone  with  the  list  of  questions  was 
resting  against  her  breast.  "  I'm  going  away 
from  them.  I  must  be  going  away  from  them," 
ran  her  thoughts  regretfully.  "  They  can't  keep 
me.  This  is  the  utmost.  I've  won.  There'll 
never  be  anything  more  than  this,  here.  It  would 
always  be  the  same — ^with  different  girls.  Cer- 
tainty. Even  the  sunlight  paid  a  sort  of  homage 
to  the  fathomless  certainty  she  felt.  The  sun- 
light in  this  little  schoolroom  was  telling  her  of 


i8o  BACKWATER 

other  sunlights,  vast  and  unbroken,  somewhere — 
coming,  her  own  sunlights,  when  she  should  have 
wrenched  herself  away.  It  was  there ;  she  glanced 
up  again  and  again  to  watch  it  breaking  and 
splashing  all  over  the  room.  It  would  come  again, 
but  how  differently.  Quite  soon.  She  might 
have  spared  herself  all  her  agonising.  The  girls 
did  not  know  where  she  belonged.  They  were 
holding  her.  But  she  would  go  away,  to  some 
huge  open  space.  Leave  them — ah,  it  was 
unkind.  But  she  had  left  them  already  in 
spirit. 

If  they  could  all  get  up  together  now  and  sing, 
let  their  voices  peal  together  up  and  up,  throw  all 
the  books  out  of  the  window,  they  might  go  on 
together,  forward  into  the  sunshine,  but  they 
would  not  want  to  do  that.  Hardly  any  of  them 
would  want  to  do  that.  They  would  look  at  her 
with  knowing  eyes,  and  look  at  the  door,  and  stay 
where  they  were. 

The  room  was  very  close.  Polly  Allen  and 
Eunice  Dupont,  sitting  together  at  a  little  card- 
table  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  room,  were 
whispering.  With  beating  heart  Miriam  got  up 
and  went  and  stood  before  them.  "  You  two 
are  talking,"  she  said  with  her  eyes  on  the  thick- 


BACKWATER  i8i 

ness  of  Polly's  shoulders  as  she  sat  in  profile  to 
the  room.  Eunice,  opposite  her,  against  the  wall, 
flashed  up  at  her  her  beautiful  fugitive  grin  as 
from  the  darkness  of  a  wood.  History,  thought 
Miriam.  What  has  Eunice  to  do  with  history, 
laws,  Henry  H,  the  English  Constitution  ?  "  You 
don't  talk,"  she  said  coldly,  feeling  as  she  watched 
her  that  Eunice's  pretty  clothes  were  stripped 
away  and  she  were  stabbing  at  her  soft  rounded 
body,  "  at  examinations.  Can't  you  see  that  ?  " 
Eunice's  pale  face  grew  livid.  "  First  because  it 
isn't  fair  and  also  because  it  disturbs  other 
people."  You  can  tell  all  the  people  who  cheat 
by  their  smile,  she  reflected  on  her  way  back. 
Eunice  chuckled  serenely  two  or  three  times. 
"What  have  these  North  London  girls  to 
do  with  studies  f  "  .  .  .  There  was  not  a  single 
girl  like  Eunice  at  Barnes.  Even  the  very 
pretty  girls  were  .  .  .  refined. 

13 

That  afternoon  Miriam  spent  her  hour  of 
leisure  in  calling  on  the  Brooms  to  enquire  for 
Grace,  who  had  been  ill  the  whole  of  the  term. 
She  found  the  house  after  some  difficulty  in  one 
of  a  maze  of  little  rows  and  crescents  just  off 


i82  BACKWATER 

the  tram-filled  main  road,  "  She's  almost  per- 
fect— almost  perfection,"  said  Mrs.  Philps,  the 
Aunt  Lucy  Miriam  had  heard  of  and  seen  in 
church. 

They  had  been  together  in  the  little  drawing- 
room  talking  about  Grace  from  the  moment 
when  Miriam  was  shown  in  to  Mrs.  Philps  sitting 
darning  a  duster  in  a  low  chair  by  the  closed  con- 
servatory door.  The  glazed  closed  door  with  the 
little  strips  of  window  on  either  side  giving  on 
to  a  crowded  conservatory  made  the  little  room 
seem  dark.  To  Miriam  it  seemed  horribly  re- 
mote. Her  journey  to  it  had  been  through  im- 
mense distances.  Threading  the  little  sapling- 
planted  asphalt-pavemented  roadways  between 
houses  whose  unbroken  frontage  was  so  near 
and  so  bare  as  to  forbid  scrutiny,  she  felt  she 
had  reached  the  centre,  the  home  and  secret  of 
North  London  life.  Off  every  tram-haunted 
main  road,  there  must  be  a  neighbourhood  like 
this  where  lived  the  common-mouthed  harsh- 
speaking  people  who  filled  the  pavements  and 
shops  and  walked  in  the  parks.  To  enter  one  of 
the  little  houses  and  speak  there  to  its  inmates 
would  be  to  be  finally  claimed  and  infected  by 
the  life  these  people  lived,  the  thing  that  made 


BACKWATER  183 

them -what  they  were.  At  Wordsworth  House 
she  was  held  up  by  the  presence  of  the  Pernes 
and  JuHa  Doyle.  Here  she  was  helpless  and  alone. 
When  she  had  discovered  the  number  she  sought 
and,  crossing  the  little  tiled  pathway  separated 
from  the  pathway  next  door  by  a  single  iron  rail, 
had  knocked  with  the  lacquered  knocker  against 
the  glazed  and  leaded  door,  her  dreams  for  the 
future  faded.  They  would  never  be  realised. 
They  were  just  a  part  of  the  radiance  that  shone 
now  from  the  spacious  houses  she  had  lived  in 
in  the  past.  The  things  she  had  felt  this  morning 
in  the  examination  room  were  that,  too.  They 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  future.  All  the  space 
was  behind.    Things  would  grow  less  and  less. 

H 

Admitted  to  the  dark  narrowly  echoing  tiled 
passage,  she  stated  her  errand  and  was  conducted 
past  a  closed  door  and  the  opening  of  a  narrow 
staircase  which  shot  steeply,  carpeted  with  a 
narrow  strip  of  surprisingly  green  velvet  carpet- 
ing, up  towards  an  unlit  landing  and  admitted 
to  Mrs.  Philps. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Vashti,"  said  Mrs.  Philps, 
holding   Miriam's   hand   as   she   murmured   her 


i84  BACKWATER 

errand.  "  You'll  stay  tea  ?  Well,  if  you're  sure 
you  can't  I'll  not  press  you.  Bring  the  biscuits 
and  the  sherry  and  two  white  wine-glasses, 
Vashti.  Get  them  now  and  bring  them  in  at 
once.  Sit  down,  Miss  Henderson.  She's  little 
better  than  a  step-girl.  They're  all  the  same." 
Whilst  she  described  her  niece's  illness,  Miriam 
wondered  over  the  immense  bundle  of  little  even 
black  sausage-shaped  rolls  of  hair  which  stuck 
out,  larger  than  her  head  and  smoothed  to  a 
sphere  by  a  tightly  drawn  net,  at  the  back  of  her 
skull.  She  was  short  and  stout  and  had  bright 
red  cheeks  that  shone  in  the  gloom  and  rather 
prominent  large  blue  eyes  that  roamed  as  she 
talked,  allowing  Miriam  to  snatch  occasional 
glimpses  of  china-filled  what-nots  and  beaded 
ottomans.  Presently  Vashti  returned  clumsily 
with  the  wine,  making  a  great  bumping  and 
rattling  round  about  the  door.  "  You  stupid 
thing,  you've  brought  claret.  Don't  you  know 
sherry  when  you  see  it  ?  It's  at  the  back — behind 
the  Harvest  Burgundy."  "  I  shall  have  to  go 
soon,"  said  Miriam,  relieved  at  the  sight  of 
the  red  wine  and  longing  to  escape  the  sherry. 
Vashti  put  down  the  tray  and  stood  with  open 
mouth.    Even  with  her  very  high  heels  she  looked 


BACKWATER  185 

almost  a  dwarf.  The  room  seemed  less  oppres- 
sive with  the  strange  long-necked  decanter  and 
the  silver  biscuit  box  standing  on  a  table  in  the 
curious  greenish  light.  Mrs.  Philps  accepted 
the  claret  and  returned  busily  to  her  story, 
whilst  Miriam  sipped  and  glanced  at  a  large 
print  in  a  heavy  black  frame  leaning  forward  low 
over  the  small  white  marble  mantelpiece.  It 
represented  a  young  knight  in  armour  kneeling  at 
an  altar  with  joined  and  pointed  hands  held  to 
his  lips.  An  angel  standing  in  mid-air  was  touch- 
ing his  shoulder  with  a  sword.  "  Why  doesn't 
she  kiss  the  top  of  his  head,"  thought  Miriam  as 
she  sipped  her  wine.  The  distant  aisles  and  pillars 
of  the  church  made  the  room  seem  larger  than  it 
was.  "  I  suppose  they  all  look  into  that  church 
when  they  want  to  get  away  from  each  other," 
she  mused  as  Mrs.  Philps  went  on  with  her  long 
sentences  beginning  "  And  Dr.  Newman  said —  " 
And  there  was  a  little  mirror  above  a  bulging 
chiffonier  which  was  also  an  escape  from  the 
confined  space.  Looking  into  it,  she  met  Mrs. 
Philps's  glowing  face  with  the  blue  eyes  widely 
staring  and  fixed  upon  her  own,  and  heard  her 
declare,  with  her  bunched  cherry-coloured  lips, 
that  Grace  was  '  almost  perfection.'     "  Is  she  ?  " 


i86  BACKWATER 

she  responded  eagerly,  and  Mrs.  Philps  elabo- 
rated her  theme.  Grace,  then,  with  her  heavy- 
body  and  strange  hot  voice,  lying  somewhere 
upstairs  in  a  white  bed,  was  the  most  important 
thing  in  this  dark  little  house.  "  She  was  very 
near  to  death  then,"  Mrs.  Philps  was  saying 
tearfully,  "  very  near,  and  when  she  came  round 
from  her  delirium,  one  of  the  first  things  she 
said  to  me  as  soon  as  she  was  strong  enough 
to  whisper,  was  that  she  was  perfectly  certain 
about  there  being  another  life."  Mrs.  Philps's 
voice  faded  and  she  sat  with  trembling  lips  and 
eyes  downcast.  "  Did  she  !  "  Miriam  almost 
shouted,  half-rising  from  her  seat  and  turning 
from  contemplating  Mrs.  Philps  in  the  mirror  to 
look  her  full  in  the  face.  The  dim  green  light 
streaming  in  from  the  conservatory  seemed  like 
a  tide  that  made  everything  in  the  room  rock 
slightly.  A  touch  would  sweep  it  all  away  and 
heaven  would  be  there  all  round  them.  "  Did 
she,"  whispered  Miriam  in  a  faint  voice  that 
shook  her  chest.  "  '  Aunt,'  she  said,"  went  on 
Mrs.  Philps  steadily,  as  the  room  grew  firm  round 
Miriam  and  the  breath  she  drew  seemed  like  an 
early  morning  breath,  " '  I  want  to  say  some- 
thing quickly,'  she  said,  '  in  case  I  die.     It's  that 


BACKWATER  187 

I  know — for  a  positive  fact,  there  is  another 
life.' " 

"  What  a  perfectly  stupendous  thing,"  said 
Miriam.     "  It's  so  important." 

"  I  was  much  impressed.  Of  course,  I  knew 
she  was  nearly  perfect.  But  we've  not  been  in 
the  habit  of  talking  about  religion.  I  asked  her 
if  she  would  like  to  see  the  vicar.  *  Oh  no,'  she 
said,  '  there's  no  need.  He  knows.'  I  doubt  if 
he  knows  as  much  as  she  does.  But  I  didn't  make 
a  point  of  it." 

"  Oh,  but  it's  simply  wonderful.  It's  much 
more  important  than  anything  a  vicar  could  say. 
It's  their  business  to  say  those  things." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  But  she  was  so 
weak  that  I  didn't  press  it." 

"  But  it's  so  important.  What  a  wonderful 
thing  to  have  in  your  family.  Did  she  say  any- 
thing more  ?  " 

"  She  hasn't  returned  to  the  subject  again. 
She's  very  weak." 

Wild  clutching  thoughts  shook  at  Miriam.  If 
only  Grace  could  suddenly  appear  in  her  night- 
gown, to  be  questioned.  Or  if  she  herself  could 
stay  on  there  creeping  humbly  about  in  this  little 
house,  watering   the   conservatory   and   darning 


i88  BACKWATER 

dusters,  being  a  relative  of  the  Brooms,  devoting 
herself  to  Grace,  waiting  on  her,  hearing  all  she 
had  to  say.  What  did  it  matter  that  the  Brooms 
wore  heavy  mourning  and  gloated  over  funerals 
if  Grace  upstairs  in  her  room  had  really  seen  the 
white  light  away  in  the  distance  far  away  beyond 
the  noise  of  the  world  ? 


CHAPTER    VII 


HARRIETT'S  ringed  fingers  had  finished 
dipping  and  drying  the  blue  and  white 
tea-service.  She  sat  for  a  moment  staring  ahead 
down  -  stream.  Sitting  opposite  her,  Gerald 
watched  her  face  with  a  half  smile.  Miriam 
waited  sitting  at  her  side.  It  was  the  first  moment 
of  silence  since  she  had  come  home  at  midday. 
From  the  willow-curtained  island  against  which 
they  were  moored  came  little  crepitations  and 
flittings.  Ahead  of  them  the  river  blazed  gold 
and  blue,  hedged  by  high  spacious  trees.  "  Come- 
to-tea,  come-to-tesL,  hurryup-dear,"  said  a  bird 
suddenly  from  the  island  thicket. 

"  D'you  know  what  bird  that  is,  Gerald  f " 
asked  Miriam. 

"  Not  from  Adam,"  breathed  Gerald,  swaying 
on  his  seat  with  a  little  laugh.  "  It's  a  bird. 
That's  all  I  know." 

"  We'd  better  unmoor,  silly,"  muttered  Har- 
riett briskly,  gathering  up  the  tiller  ropes. 

1^9 


19©  BACKWATER 

"  Right,  la  reine." 

"  Look  here,  let  me  do  something  this  time, 
pull  or  something." 

"  You  sit  still,  my  dear." 

"  But  I  should  simply  love  to." 

"  You  shall  pull  down-stream  if  you  like  later 
on  when  the  bally  sun's  down.  My  advice  to 
you  now  is  to  go  and  lounge  in  the  bow." 

"  Oh  yes,  Mim,  you  try  it.  Lie  right  down. 
It's  simply  heavenly." 

The  boat  glided  deliciously  away  up-stream  as 
Miriam,  relinquishing  her  vision  of  Harriett 
sitting  very  upright  in  the  stern  in  her  white 
drill  dress,  and  Gerald's  lawn-shirted  back  and 
long  lean  arms  grasping  the  sculls,  lay  back  on 
the  bow  cushions  with  her  feet  comfortably 
outstretched  under  the  unoccupied  seat  in  front 
of  her.  Six  hours  ago,  shaking  hands  with  a 
roomful  of  noisy  home-going  girls — and  now 
nothing  to  do  but  float  dreamily  out  through  the 
gateway  of  her  six  weeks'  holiday.  The  dust  of 
the  school  was  still  upon  her  ;  the  skin  of  her  face 
felt  strained  and  tired,  her  hands  were  tired  and 
hot,  her  blouse  dim  with  a  week  of  school  wear, 
and  her  black  skirt  oppressed  her  with  its  in- 
visible burden  of  grime.    But  she  was  staring  up 


BACKWATER  191 

at  a  clean  blue  sky  fringed  with  tree-tops.  She 
stretched  herself  out  more  luxuriously  upon  her 
cushions.  The  river  smoothly  moving  and  lap- 
ping underneath  the  boat  was  like  a  cradle.  The 
soft  fingers  of  the  air  caressed  her  temples  and 
moved  along  the  outlines  of  her  face  and  neck. 
Forty-two  days  .  .  .  like  this.  To-morrow  she 
would  wake  up  a  new  person  .  .  .  sing,  and  shout 
with  Harriett.  She  closed  her  eyes.  The  gently 
lifting  water  seemed  to  come  nearer;  the  in- 
vading air  closed  in  on  her.  She  gave  herself 
ecstatically  to  its  touch ;  the  muscles  of  her 
tired  face  relaxed  and  she  believed  that  she 
could  sleep  ;   cry  or  sleep. 


It  was  Gerald  who  had  worked  this  miraculous 
first  day  for  her.  "  Boating  "  hitherto  had  meant 
large  made-up  parties  of  tennis-club  people,  a 
fixed  day,  uneasy  anticipations  as  to  the  weather, 
the  carrying  of  hampers  of  provisions  and  crock- 
ery, spirit  lamps  and  kettles,  clumsy  hired  ran- 
dans, or  little  fleets  of  stupidly  competing  canoes, 
lack  of  space,  heavy  loads  to  pull,  the  need  for 
ceaseless  chaff,  the  irritating  triumphs  of  clever 
"  knowing  "  girls  in  smart  clothes,  the  Pooles,  or 


192  BACKWATER 

really  beautiful  people,  like  Nan  Babington  and 
her  cousin.  Everything  they  said  sounding  won- 
derful and  seeming  to  improve  the  scenery  ;  the 
jokes  of  the  men,  even  Ted  always  joked  all  the 
time,  the  misery  of  large  noisy  picnic  teas  on  the 
grass,  and  in  the  end  great  weariness  and  disap- 
pointment, the  beauty  of  the  river  and  the  trees 
only  appearing  the  next  day  or  perhaps  long  after- 
wards. 

This  boat  was  Gerald's  own  private  boat,  a 
double-scuUing  skiff,  slender  and  gold-brown, 
beautifully  fitted  and  with  a  locker  containing 
everything  that  was  wanted  for  picnicking.  They 
had  arranged  their  expedition  at  lunch-time, 
trained  to  Richmond,  bought  fruit  and  cakes  and 
got  the  boat's  water-keg  filled  by  one  of  Redknap's 
men.  Gerald  knew  how  to  do  things  properly. 
He  had  always  been  accustomed  to  things  like 
this  boat.  He  would  not  care  to  have  anything 
just  anyhow.  "  Let's  do  the  thing  decently,  la 
reine."  He  would  keep  on  saying  that  at  intervals 
until  Harriett  had  learned  too.  How  he  had 
changed  her  since  Easter  when  their  engagement 
had  been  openly  allowed.  The  clothes  he  had 
bought  for  her,  especially  this  plain  drill  dress 
with  its   neat   little  coat.     The  long  black  tie 


BACKWATER  193 

fastened  with  the  plain  heavy  cable  broach 
pinned  in  lengthwise  half-way  down  the  ends  of 
the  tie,  which  reached  almost  to  her  black  belt. 
That  was  Gerald.  Her  shoes,  the  number  of 
pairs  of  light,  expensive,  beautifully  made  shoes. 
Her  bearing,  the  change  in  her  voice,  a  sort  of 
roundness  about  her  old  Harryish  hardness.  But 
she  was  the  same  Harry,  the  Harry  he  had  seen 
for  the  first  time  snorting  with  anger  over  Mr. 
Marth's  sentimental  singing  at  the  Assembly 
Rooms  concert.  "  My  hat,  wasn't  la  reine 
fuming  !  "  He  would  forgive  her  all  her  ignor- 
ance. It  was  her  triumph.  What  an  extra- 
ordinary time  Harry  would  have.  Gerald  was 
well-off.  He  had  a  private  income  behind  his 
Canadian  Pacific  salary.  His  grandfather  had 
been  a  diplomatist,  living  abroad  nearly  all  the 
time,  and  his  wealthy  father  and  wealthy  mother 
with  a  large  fortune  of  her  own  had  lived  in  a 
large  house  in  Chelsea,  giving  dinner  parties  and 
going  to  the  opera  until  nearly  all  the  capital 
had  gone,  both  dying  just  in  time  to  leave 
enough  to  bring  Gerald  in  a  small  income 
when  he  left  Haileybury.  And  the  wonderful 
thing  was  that  Gerald  liked  mouching  about 
and  giggling.    He  liked  looking  for  hours  in  shop 


194  BACKWATER 

windows   and    strolling   on    the    Heath    eating 
peppermints. 

3 
Everything  had  disappeared  into  a  soft  black- 
ness ;  only  on  the  water  a  faint  light  was  left. 
It  came  and  went  ;  sometimes  there  was  nothing 
but  darkness  and  the  soft  air.  The  small  paper 
lantern  swinging  at  the  bow  made  a  little  blot  of 
light  that  was  invisible  from  the  stroke  seat.  The 
boat  went  swiftly  and  easily.  Miriam  felt  she 
could  go  on  pulling  for  hours  at  the  top  of  her 
strength  through  the  night.  Leaning  forward, 
breasting  the  featureless  darkness,  sweeping  the 
sculls  back  at  the  full  reach  of  her  arms,  leaning 
back  and  pressing  her  whole  weight  upwards 
from  the  footboard  against  the  pull  of  the  water, 
her  body  became  an  outstretched  elastic  system  of 
muscles,  rhythmically  working  against  the  smooth 
dragging  resistance  of  the  dark  water.  Her 
sleeves  were  rolled  up,  her  collar-stud  unfastened, 
her  cool  drowsy  lids  drooped  over  her  cool  eyes. 
Each  time  she  leaned  backwards  against  her 
stroke,  pressing  the  foot-board,  the  weight  of  her 
body  dragged  at  a  line  of  soreness  where  the 
sculls  pressed  her  hands,  and  with  the  final  fling 
of  the  water  from  the  sculls  a  little  stinging  pain 


BACKWATER  195 

ran  along  the  pads  of  her  palms.  To-morrow 
there  would  be  a  row  of  happy  blisters. 

"  You  needn't  put  more  beef  into  it  than  you 
like,  Mirry."  Gerald's  voice  came  so  quietly  out 
of  the  darkness  that  it  scarcely  disturbed  Miriam's 
ecstacy.  She  relaxed  her  swing,  and  letting  the 
sculls  skim  and  dip  in  short  easy  strokes,  sat 
glowing. 

"  I've  never  pulled  a  boat  alone  before." 

"  It  shows  you  can't  be  a  blue-stocking,  thank 
the  Lord,"  laughed  Gerald. 

"  Who  said  I  was  ?  " 

"  I've  always  understood  you  were  a  very  wise 
lady,  my  dear." 

"  Nobody  told  you  she  was  a  blue-stocking, 
silly.    You  invented  the  word  yourself." 

"  I  ?    I  invented  blue-stocking  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you,  silly.  It's  like  your  saying  women 
never  date  their  letters  just  because  your  cousins 
don't." 

"  Vive  la  reine.  The  Lord  deliver  me  from 
blue-stockings,  anyhow." 

"  All  right,  what  about  it  ?  There  aren't  any 
here  !  " 

"  You're  not  one,  anyhow." 


196  BACKWATER 

4 

The  next  day  after  tea  Eve  arrived  home  from 
Gloucestershire. 

Miriam  had  spent  the  day  with  Harriett.  After 
breakfast,  bounding  silently  up  and  downstairs, 
they  visited  each  room  in  turn,  chased  each  other 
about  the  echoing  rooms  and  passages  of  the  base- 
ment and  all  over  the  garden.  Miriam  listened 
speechlessly  to  the  sound  of  Harriett's  heels  soft 
on  the  stair  carpet,  ringing  on  the  stone  floors  of 
the  basement,  and  the  swish  of  her  skirts  as  she 
flew  over  the  lawn  following  surrounding  re- 
sponding to  Miriam's  wild  tour  of  the  garden. 
Miriam  listened  and  watched,  her  eyes  and  ears 
eagerly  gathering  and  hoarding  visions.  It  could 
not  go  on.  Presently  some  claim  would  be  made 
on  Harriett  and  she  would  be  alone.  But  when 
they  had  had  their  fill  of  silently  rushing  about, 
Harriett  piloted  her  into  the  drawing-room  and 
hastily  began  opening  the  piano.  A  pile  of 
duets  lay  on  the  lid.  She  had  evidently  gathered 
them  there  in  readiness.  Wandering  about  the 
room,  shifting  the  familiar  ornaments,  flinging 
herself  into  chair  after  chair,  Miriam  watched 
her  and  saw  that  her  strange  quiet  little  snub  face 


BACKWATER  197 

was  lit  and  shapely.  Harriett,  grown-up,  serene 
and  well-dressed  and  going  to  be  married  in  the 
spring,  was  transported  hy  this  new  coming  to- 
gether. When  they  had  played  the  last  of  the 
duets  that  they  knew  well,  Harriett  fumbled  at 
the  pages  of  a  bound  volume  of  operas  in  obvious 
uncertainty.  At  any  moment  Miriam  might  get 
up  and  go  off  and  bring  their  sitting  together  on 
the  long  cretonne-covered  duet  stool  to  an  end. 
"  Come  on,"  roared  Miriam  gently,  "  let's  try 
this  "  ;  and  they  attacked  the  difficult  pages. 
Miriam  counted  the  metre,  whispered  it  intoned 
and  sang  it,  carrying  Harriett  along  with  shouts 
"  go  on,  go  on  "  when  they  had  lost  each  other. 
They  smashed  their  way  along  by  turns  play- 
ing only  a  single  note  here  and  there  into  the 
framework  of  Miriam's  desperate  counting,  or 
banging  out  cheerful  masses  of  discordant  tones, 
anything  to  go  on  driving  their  way  together 
through  the  pages  while  the  sunlight  streamed 
half  seen  into  the  conservatory  and  the  flower- 
filled  garden  crowded  up  against  the  windows, 
anything  to  come  out  triumphantly  together  at 
the  end  and  to  stop  satisfied,  the  sounds  of  the 
house,  so  long  secretly  known  to  them  both, 
low  now  around  them,  heard  by  them  together, 


198  BACKWATER 

punctuating  their  joy.  The  gong  sounded  for 
lunch.  "  Eve,"  Miriam  remembered  suddenly, 
"  Eve's  coming  this  afternoon."  The  thought 
set  gladness  thundering  through  her  as  she  rose 
from  the  piano.  "  Let's  go  for  a  walk  after 
lunch,"  she  muttered.  Harriett  blushed. 
"  Awri,"  she  responded  tenderly. 

5 

The  mile  of  gently  rising  roadway  leading  to 
the  Heath  was  overarched  by  huge  trees.  Shadowy 
orchards,  and  the  silent  sunlit  outlying  meadows 
and  park  land  of  a  large  estate  streamed  gently  by 
them  beyond  the  trees  as  they  strode  along  through 
the  cool  leaf-scented  air.  They  strode  speech- 
lessly ahead  as  if  on  a  pilgrimage,  keeping  step. 
Harriett's  stylish  costume  had  a  strange  unreal 
look  in  the  great  lane,  under  the  towering  trees. 
Miriam  wondered  if  she  found  it  dull  and  was 
taking  it  so  boldly  because  they  were  walking 
along  it  together.  Obviously  she  did  not  want 
to  talk.  She  walked  along  swiftly  and  erect,  look- 
ing eagerly  ahead  as  if,  when  they  reached  the 
top  and  the  Heath  and  the  windmill,  they  would 
find  something  they  were  both  looking  for. 
Miriam   felt  she  could  glance  about  unnoticed 


BACKWATER  199 

and  looked  freely,  as  she  had  done  so  many  hun- 
dreds of  times  before,  at  the  light  on  the  distant 
meadows  and  lying  along  the  patches  of  under- 
growth between  the  trunks  of  the  trees.  They 
challenged  and  questioned  her  silently  as  they 
had  always  done  and  she  them,  in  a  sort  of  pas- 
sionate sulkiness.  They  gave  no  answer,  but  the 
scents  in  the  cool  tree-filled  air  went  on  all  the 
time  offering  steady  assurance,  and  presently  as 
walking  became  an  unconscious  rhythm  and  the 
question  of  talk  or  no  talk  had  definitely  decided 
itself,  the  challenge  of  the  light  was  silenced  and 
the  shaded  roadway  led  on  to  paradise.  Was 
there  anyone  anywhere  who  saw  it  as  she  did  ? 
Anyone  who  looking  along  the  alley  of  white  road 
would  want  to  sit  down  in  the  roadway  or  kneel 
amongst  the  undergrowth  and  shout  and  shout  ? 
In  the  north  of  London  there  were  all  those 
harsh  street  voices  infesting  the  trees  and  the 
parks.  No  !  they  did  not  exist.  There  was  no 
North  London.  Let  them  die.  They  did  not 
know  the  meaning  of  far-reaching  meadows, 
park-land,  deer,  the  great  silent  Heath,  the  silent 
shoulders  of  the  windmill  against  the  far-off 
softness  of  the  sky.  Harsh  streetiness . . .  cunning, 
knowing  ...  do  you  blame  me  ?  ...  or  char- 


200  BACKWATER 

womanishness,  smarmy ;  churchy  or  chapeUsh 
sentimentality.  Sentimentality.  No  need  to 
think  about  them. 

"  Never  the  time  and  the  place  and  the  loved 
one  all  together."  Who  said  that  ?  Was  it  true  ? 
Dreadful.  It  couldn't  be.  So  many  people  had 
seen  moonlit  gardens,  together.  All  the  happy 
people  who  were  sure  of  each  other.  "  I  say, 
Harriett,'*  she  said  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  bring- 
ing Harriett  curvetting  in  the  road  just  in  front 
of  her.  "  I  say,  listen."  Harriett  ran  up  the 
remaining  strips  of  road  and  out  on  to  the  Heath. 
It  was  ablaze  with  sunlight — as  the  river  and  the 
trees  had  been  yesterday — a  whole  day  of  light 
and  Eve  on  her  way  home,  almost  home.  Harriett 
must  not  know  how  she  was  rushing  to  Eve  ; 
with  what  tingling  fingers.  "  Oh,  what  I  was 
going  to  ask  you  was  whether  you  can  see  the 
moonlight  like  it  is  when  you  are  alone,  when 
Gerald  is  there." 

"...  It  isn't  the  same  as  when  you  are  alone," 
said  Harriett  quietly,  arranging  the  cuff  of  her 
glove. 

"  Do  explain  what  you  mean." 

"  Well,  it's  different." 

*'  I  see.    You  don't  know  how." 


BACKWATER  201 

"  It's  quite  different." 

"  Does  Gerald  like  the  moonlight  ?  " 

"  /  dunno.    I  never  asked  him." 

"  Fancy  the  Roehampton  people  living  up 
here  all  the  time." 

"  There's  their  old  washing  going  flip-flap  over 
there." 

Harriett  was  finding  out  that  she  was  back  in 
the  house  with  Eve. 

"  Let's  rush  to  the  windmill.    Let's  sing." 

"  Come  on  ;  only  we  can't  rush  and  sing  too." 

"  Yes  we  can,  come  on."     Running  up  over 

hillocks  and  stumbling  through  sandy  gorse-grown 

hollows  they  sang  a  hunting  song,  Miriam  leading 

with    the    short    galloping    phrases,    Harriett's 

thinner  voice  dropping  in,  broken  and  uncertain, 

with  a  strange  brave  sadness  in  it  that  went  to 

Miriam's  heart. 

6 

"  Eve,  you  look  exactly  like  Dudley's  gracious 
lady  in  these  things.  Don't  you  feel  like  it  ?  " 
Eve  stopped  near  the  landing  window  and  stood 
in  her  light  green  canvas  dress  with  its  pale  green 
silk  sleeves  shedding  herself  over  Miriam  from 
under  her  rose-trimmed  white  chip  hat.  Miriam 
was  carrying  her  light  coat  and  all  the  small  litter 


202  BACKWATER 

of  her  journey.  "  Go  on  up,"  she  said,  "  I  want 
to  talk,"  and  Eve  hurried  on,  Miriam  stumblingly 
following  her,  holding  herself  in,  eyes  and  ears 
wide  for  the  sight  and  sound  of  the  slender 
figure  flitting  upstairs  through  the  twilight.  The 
twilight  wavered  and  seemed  to  ebb  and  flow, 
suggesting  silent  dawn  and  full  midday,  and  the 
house  rang  with  a  soundless  music. 

"  It  was  Mrs.  Wallace  who  suggested  my 
wearing  all  my  best  things  for  the  journey," 
panted  Eve  ;  "  they  don't  get  crushed  with  pack- 
ing and  they  needn't  get  dirty  if  you're  careful." 

"  You  look  exactly  like  Dudley's  gracious  lady. 
You  know  you  do.    You  know  it  perfectly  well." 

"  They  do  seem  jolly  now  I'm  back.  They 
don't  seem  anything  down  there.  Just  ordinary 
with  everybody  in  much  grander  things." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  grander  ?  What  sort  of 
things  ?  " 

"  Oh,  all  sorts  of  lovely  white  dresses." 

"It  is  extraordinary  about  all  those  white 
dresses,"  said  Miriam  emphatically,  pushing  her 
way  after  Eve  into  Sarah's  bedroom.  "  Can  I 
come  in  ?  I'm  coming  in.  Sarah  says  it's  because 
men  like  them  and  she  gets  simply  sick  of  girls 
in  white  and  cream  dresses  all  over  the  place  in 


BACKWATER  203 

the  summer,  and  it's  a  perfect  relief  to  see  anyone 
in  a  colour  in  the  sun.  They  have  red  sunshades 
sometimes,  but  Sarah  says  that's  not  enough  ; 
you  want  people  in  colours.  I  wonder  if  there's 
anything  in  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  there  is,"  said  Sarah,  releasing  the 
last  strap  of  Eve's  trunk. 

"  They'd  all  put  on  coloured  things  if  it  weren't 
for  that." 

"  Men  tell  them." 

"  Do  they  ?  " 

"  The  engaged  men  tell  them — or  brothers." 

"  I  can't  think  how  you  get  to  know  these 
things,  sober  Sally." 

"  Oh,  you  can  tell." 

"  Well,  then,  why  do  men  like  silly  white  and 
cream  dresses,  pasty,  whitewashy  clothes  alto- 
gether ?  " 

"  It's  something  they  want ;  it  looks  different 
to  them." 

"  Sarah  knows  all  sorts  of  things,"  said  Miriam 
excitedly,  watching  the  confusion  of  the  room 
from  the  windows.  "  She  says  she  knows  why  the 
Pooles  look  down  and  smirk ;  their  dimples  and 
the  line  of  their  chins ;  that  men  admire  them 
looking  down  like  that.     IsuH  it  frightful.    Dis- 


204  BACKWATER 

gusting.  And  men  don't  seem  to  see  through 
them." 

"  It's  those  kind  of  girls  get  on  best." 

Miriam  sighed. 

"  Oh  well,  don't  let's  think  about  them.  Not 
to-night,  anyhow,"  cooed  Eve. 

"  Sarah  says  there  are  much  more  awful 
reasons.  I  can't  think  how  she  finds  them  all 
out.  Sober  Sally.  I  know  she's  right.  It's  too 
utterly  sickening  somehow,  for  words." 

"  Mim." 

"  Pooh — barooo,  baroooo." 

"  Mim " 

"  Damnation." 

"  Mimmy— Jim." 

"  I  said  DAMNATION." 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right.  What  have  we  got  to  do 
with  horrid  knowing  people." 

"  Well,  they're  there,  all  the  time.  You  can't 
get  away  from  them.  They're  all  over  the  place. 
Either  the  knowing  ones  or  the  simpering  ones. 
It's  all  the  same  in  the  end." 

Eve  quietly  began  to  unpack.  "  Oh  well," 
she  smiled,  "  we're  all  different  when  there  are 
men  about  to  when  we're  by  ourselves.  We  all 
make  eyes  in  a  way." 


BACKWATER  205 

"  Eve !   What  a  perfectly  beastly  thing  to  say." 

"  It  isn't,  my  dear,"  said  Eve  pensively.  "  You 
should  see  yourself  ;  you  do." 

«  Sally,  doir' 

7 

"  Of  course  you  do,"  giggled  Eve  quietly,  "  as 
much  as  anybody." 

"  Then  I'm  the  most  crawling  thing  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,"  thought  Miriam,  turning 
silently  to  the  tree-tops  looming  softly  just  out- 
side the  windov;' ;  "  and  the  worst  of  it  is  I  only 
know  it  at  moments  now  and  again."  The  tree- 
tops  serene  with  some  happy  secret  cast  her  off, 
and  left  her  standing  with  groping  crisping 
fingers  unable  to  lift  the  misery  that  pressed 
upon  her  heart.  "  God,  what  a  filthy  world ! 
God  what  a  filthy  world ! "  she  muttered.  "  Every- 
one hemmed  and  hemmed  and  hemmed  into  it." 
Harriett  came  in  and  stepped  up  on  to  the 
high  canopied  bed.  "  Ullo,"  she  said  in  general, 
sitting  herself  up  tailor-fashion  in  the  middle  of 
the  bed  so  that  the  bright  twilight  fell  full  upon 
her  head  and  the  breast  and  shoulders  of  her 
light  silk-sleeved  dress.  Humming  shreds  of  a 
violin  obligato.  Eve  rustled  out  layer  after  layer 
of  paper-swathed  garments,  to  be  gathered  up 


2o6  BACKWATER 

by  Sarah  moving  solidly  about  between  the  ward- 
robe and  the  chest  of  drawers  in  her  rather  heavy 
boots.  There  would  not  be  any  talk.  But 
silently  the  room  filled  and  overflowed.  Turning 
at  last  from  her  window,  Miriam  glanced  at  her 
sisters  and  let  her  thoughts  drop  into  the  flowing 
tide.  Harry,  sitting  there  sharp  and  upright  in 
the  fading  light,  coming  in  to  them  with  her 
future  life  streaming  out  behind  her  spreading 
and  shining  and  rippling,  herself  the  radiant 
point  of  that  wonderful  life,  actually  there, 
neatly  enthroned  amongst  them,  one  of  them, 
drawing  them  all  with  her  out  towards  its  easy 
security  ;  Eve,  happy  with  her  wardrobe  of  dainty 
things,  going  fearlessly  forward  to  some  unseen 
fate,  not  troubling  about  it.  Sarah's  strange 
clean  clear  channel  of  wisdom.  Where  would  it 
lead  ?  It  would  always  drive  straight  through 
everything. 

All  these  things  meant  that  the  mere  simple 
awfulness  of  things  at  home  had  changed.  These 
three  girls  she  had  known  so  long  as  fellow- 
prisoners,  and  who  still  bore  at  moments  in  their 
eyes,  their  movements,  the  marks  of  the  terrors 
and  uncertainties  amongst  which  they  had  all 
grown  up,  were  going  on,  out  into  life,  scored 


BACKWATER  207 

and  scarred,  but  alive  and  changeable,  able  to 
become  quite  new.  Memories  of  strange  crises 
and  the  ageing  deadening  shifts  they  had  in- 
vented to  tide  them  over  humiliating  situations 
were  here  crowded  in  the  room  together  with 
them  all.  But  these  memories  were  no  longer 
as  they  had  so  often  been,  the  principal  thing 
in  the  room  whenever  they  were  all  gathered 
silently  together.  If  Eve  and  Harriett  had  got 
away  from  the  past  and  now  had  happy  eyes  and 
mouths.  .  .  .  Sarah's  solid  quiet  cheerfulness, 
now  grown  so  large  and  free  that  it  seemed  even 
when  she  was  stillest  to  knock  your  mind  about  like 
something  in  a  harlequinade.  .  .  .  Why  had  they 
not  all  known  in  the  past  that  they  would  change  ? 
Why  had  they  been  so  oppressed  whenever  they 
stopped  to  think  ? 

Those  American  girls  in  "  Little  Women " 
and  "  Good  Wives  "  made  fun  out  of  everything. 
But  they  had  never  had  to  face  real  horrors  and 
hide  them  from  everybody,  mewed  up. 

8 

When  it  was  nearly  dark  Sarah  lit  the  gas. 
Harriett  had  gone  downstairs.  Miriam  lowered 
the  Venetian  blinds,  shutting  out  the  summer. 


2o8  BACKWATER 

To-morrow  it  would  be  there  again,  waiting  for 
them  when  they  woke  in  the  morning.  In  her 
own  and  Harriett's  room  the  daylight  would  be 
streaming  in  through  the  Madras  muslin  curtains, 
everything  in  the  room  very  silent  and  distinct ; 
nothing  to  be  heard  but  the  little  flutterings  of 
birds  under  the  eaves.  You  could  listen  to  it  for 
ever  if  you  kept  perfectly  still.  When  you  drew 
back  the  curtains  the  huge  day  would  be  standing 
outside  clear  with  gold  and  blue  and  dense  with 
trees  and  flowers. 

Sarah's  face  was  uneasy.  She  seemed  to  avoid 
meeting  anyone's  eyes.  Presently  she  faced  them, 
sitting  on  a  low  rocking  chair  with  her  tightly 
clasped  hands  stretched  out  beyond  her  knees. 
She  glanced  fearfully  from  one  to  the  other  and 
bit  her  lips.  "  What  now,"  thought  Miriam. 
The  anticipated  holidays  disappeared.  Of  course. 
She  might  have  known  they  would.  For  a 
moment  she  felt  sick,  naked  and  weak.  Then  she 
braced  herself  to  meet  the  shock.  I  must  sit 
tight,  I  must  sit  tight  and  not  show  anything. 
Eve's  probably  praying.  Oh,  make  haste,  Sally, 
and  get  it  over. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Sally  ?  "  said  Eve  in  a 
low  voice. 


BACKWATER  209 

"  Oh,  Eve  and  Mim,  I'm  awfully  sorry." 

"  You'd  better  tell  us  at  once,"  said  Eve, 
crimsoning. 

"  Haven't  you  noticed  anything  ?  " 

Miriam  looked  at  Sarah's  homely  prosperous 
shape.  It  couldn't  be  anything.  It  was  a  night- 
mare.   She  waited,  pinching  her  wrist. 

"  What  is  it,  Sally  ?  "  breathed  Eve,  tapping 
her  green-clad  knee.  Clothes  and  furniture  and 
pictures  .  .  .  houses  full  of  rh'-ps  rnd  people 
talking  in  the  hci;':<-       ■■  '  '      rr*  rre- 

tending,  talk' 

"  It'5  mothfcx-.  ' 

""What  on  earth  a;.-  ^, ..      .........  . 

Miriam  angrily. 

"  She's  ill.  Bennett  took  her  to  a  specialist. 
There's  got  to  be — she's  got  to  have  an  opera- 
tion." 

Miriam  drew  up  the  blind  with  a  noisy  rattle, 
smiling  at  Eve  frowning  impatiently  at  the 
noise.  Driving  the  heavy  sash  up  as  far  as  it 
would  go,  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  open 
frame.  The  garden  did  not  seem  to  be  there. 
The  tepid  night  air  was  like  a  wall,  a  black  wall. 
For  a  moment  a  splintered  red  light,  like  the  light 
that  comes  from  a  violent  blow  on  the  forehead, 
p 


210  BACKWATER 

flashed  along  it.  Sarah  and  Eve  were  talking  in 
strange  voices,  interrupting  each  other.  It  would 
be  a  relief  to  do  something,  faint  or  something 
selfish.  But  she  must  hear  what  they  were  say- 
ing ;  listen  to  both  the  voices  cutting  through 
the  air  of  the  hot  room.  Propped  weak-limbed 
against  the  window  open-mouthed  for  air  she 
forced  herself  to  hear,  pressing  her  cold  hands 
closely  together.  The  gas  light  that  had  seemed 
so  bright  hardly  seemed  to  light  the  room  at  all. 
Everything  looked  small,  even  Grannie's  old 
Chippendale  bedstead  and  the  double- fronted 
wardrobe.  The  girls  were  little  monkey  ghosts 
babbling  together  beside  Eve's  open  trunk.  Did 
they  see  that  it  was  exactly  like  a  grave  ? 

9 

The  sun  shone  through  the  apple  trees,  making 
the  small  half-ripe  apples  look  as  though  they  were 
coated  with  enamel. 

It  was  quite  clear  that  if  they  did  go  away 
together,  the  four  of  them,  she.  Eve,  Gerald  and 
Harriett  to  Brighton  or  somewhere,  they  would 
be  able  to  forget.  You  could  tell  that  from  the 
strange  quiet  easy  tone  of  Harriett's  and  Gerald's 
voices.     There  would   be   the   aquarium.     She 


BACKWATER  211 

supposed  they  would  go  to  the  aquarium  with 
its  strange  underground  smell  of  stagnant  sea 
air  and  stare  into  the  depths  of  those  strange 
green  tanks  and  watch  the  fish  flashing  about  like 
shadows  or  skimming  hy  near  the  front  of  the 
tank  with  the  light  full  on  their  softly  tinted 
scales.  Harriett  sat  steadily  at  her  side  on  the 
overturned  seed-box,  middle-aged  and  responsible, 
quietly  discussing  the  details  of  the  plan  with 
Gerald,  cross-legged  at  their  feet  on  the  grass 
plot.  They  had  not  said  anything  about  the 
reasons  for  going  ;  but  of  course  Gerald  must 
know  all  that.  He  knew  everything  now,  all 
about  the  money  troubles,  all  the  awful  things, 
and  it  seemed  to  make  no  difference  to  him. 
He  made  light  of  it.  It  was  humiliating  to  think 
that  he  had  come  just  as  things  had  reached  their 
worst,  the  house  going  to  be  sold,  Pater  and 
mother  and  Sarah  going  into  lodgings  in  Septem- 
ber, and  the  maddening  helpless  worry  about 
mother  and  all  the  money  for  that.  And  yet  it 
was  a  good  thing  he  had  known  them  all  in  the 
old  house  and  seen  them  there,  even  pretending 
to  be  prosperous.  And  yet  the  house  and  garden 
was  nothing  to  him.  Just  a  house  and  garden. 
Harriett's  house  and  garden,  and  he  was  going  to 


212  BACKWATER 

take  Harriett  away.  The  house  and  garden  did 
not  matter. 

She  glanced  at  the  sunUt  fruit  trees,  the 
thickets  of  the  familiar  kitchen  garden,  the  rising 
grass  bank  at  the  near  end  of  the  distant  lawn, 
the  eloquent  back  of  the  large  red  house.  He 
( ould  not  see  all  the  things  there  were  there,  all 
ihe  long  years,  or  know  what  it  was  to  have  that 
cut  away  and  nothing  ahead  but  Brighton  aquar- 
ium with  Harriett  and  Eve,  and  then  the  school 
again,  and  disgraceful  lodgings  in  some  strange 
place,  no  friends  and  everybody  looking  down  on 
them.    She  met  his  eyes  and  they  both  smiled. 

"  Keep  her  perfectly  quiet  for  the  next  few 
weeks,  that's  the  idea,  and  when  it's  all  over 
she'll  be  better  than  she's  ever  been  in  her  life." 

"  D'you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think,  I  know  she  will ;  people  always 
are.  I've  known  scores  of  people  have  operations. 
It's  nothing  nowadays.    Ask  Bennett." 

"  Does  he  think  she'll  be  better  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  " 

"  Of  course  he  did." 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  we'd  really  better  go." 

"  Of  course,  we're  going." 


BACKWATER  213 

"  I'm  going  to  look  for  a  place  in  a  family 
after  next  term.  I  shall  give  notice  when  I  get 
back.  You  get  more  money  in  a  family  Eve  says, 
and  home  life,  and  if  you  haven't  a  home  they're 
only  too  glad  to  have  you  there  in  the  holidays 
too." 

"  You  take  my  advice,  my  dear  girl.  Don't  go 
into  a  family.  Eve'll  find  it  out  before  she's 
much  older." 

"  I  must  have  more  money." 

"  Mirry's  so  silly.  She  insists  on  paying  her 
share  of  Brighton.    Isn't  she  an  owl  ?  " 

"  Oh  well,  of  course,  if  she's  going  to  make  a 
point  of  spending  her  cash  when  she  needn't  she'd 
better  find  a  more  paying  job.     That's  certain 


CHAPTER    VIII 


"  "VrOU  know   I'm    funny.     I   never  talk  to 

A    young  ladies." 

Miriam  looked  leisurely  at  the  man  walking  at 
her  side  along  the  grass-covered  cliff  ;  his  well- 
knit  frame,  his  well-cut  blue  serge,  the  trimness 
of  collar  and  tie,  his  faintly  blunted  regular 
features,  clean  ruddy  skin  and  clear  expressionless 
German  blue  eyes.  Altogether  he  was  rather  like 
a  German,  with  his  red  and  white  and  gold  and 
blue  colouring  and  his  small  military  moustache. 
She  could  imagine  him  snapping  abruptly  in  a 
booming  chest  voice,  "  Mit  Frauen  spreche  ich 
uherhaupt  nicht."  But  he  spoke  slowly  and 
languidly,  he  was  an  Englishman  and  somehow 
looked  like  a  man  who  was  accustomed  to  refined 
society.  It  was  true  he  never  spoke  at  the  board- 
ing-house meals,  excepting  an  occasional  word 
with  his  friend,  and  he  had  been  obliged  to  join 
their    Sunday   walk   because   his    friend   was   so 

214 


BACKWATER  215 

determined  to  come.  Still  he  was  not  awkward 
or  clumsy  either  at  table  or  now.  Only  absolutely 
quiet,  and  then  saying  such  a  startling  rather  rude 
thing  quite  suddenly.  One  could  stare  at  him 
to  discover  the  reason  of  his  funny  speech,  because 
evidently  he  was  quite  common,  not  a  bounder 
but  quite  a  common  young  man,  speaking  of 
women  as  '  young  ladies.'  Then  how  on  earth 
did  he  manage  to  look  distinguished.  Oppressed 
and  ill  at  ease  she  turned  away  to  the  far-reaching 
green  levels  and  listened  to  the  sea  tumbling 
heavily  far  below  against  the  cliffs.  Away  ahead 
Eve  and  her  little  companion  walking  jauntily 
along,  his  tight  dust-coloured  curls  exposed  to 
the  full  sunlight,  his  cane  swinging  round  as  he 
talked  and  laughed,  seemed  to  be  turning  inland 
towards  the  downs.  They  had  seen  Ovingdean 
in  the  distance,  stupid  Ovingdean  that  everybody 
had  talked  about  at  breakfast,  and  were  finding 
the  way.  How  utterly  silly.  They  did  not  see 
how  utterly  silly  it  was  to  make  up  your  mind 
to  "  go  to  Ovingdean  "  and  then  go  to  Oving- 
dean. How  utterly  silly  everybody  and  every- 
thing was. 

Eve  looked  very  straight   and  slim   and  was 
walking  happily,  bending  her  head  a  little  as  she 


2i6  BACKWATER 

always  did  when  she  was  listening.  Their  backs 
looked  happy.  And  here  she  was  forced  to  walk 
with  this  nice-looking  strange  solid  heavyish  man 
and  his  cold  insulting  remark  ;  almost  the  only 
thing  he  had  said  since  they  had  been  alone  to- 
gether. It  had  been  rather  nice  walking  along 
the  top  of  the  cliff  side  by  side  saying  nothing. 
They  walked  exactly  in  step  and  his  blunted 
features  looked  quite  at  ease  ;  and  she  had  gone 
easily  along  disposing  of  him  with  a  gentle  feeling 
of  proprietorship,  and  had  watched  the  gentle 
swing  and  movement  of  the  landscape  as  they 
swung  along.  It  seemed  secure  and  painless  and 
was  gradually  growing  beautiful,  and  then  sud- 
denly she  felt  that  he  must  have  his  thoughts, 
men  were  always  thinking,  and  would  be  expect- 
ing her  to  be  animated  and  entertaining.  Lump- 
ishly  she  had  begun  about  the  dullness  of  the 
beach  and  promenade  on  Sundays  and  the  need 
to  find  something  to  do  between  dinner  and  tea — 
hes.  All  conversation  was  a  lie.  And  somehow 
she  had  led  him  to  his  funny  German  remark. 

''  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  said  at  last  anxiously. 
It  was  very  rude  intruding  upon  him  like  that. 
He  had  spoken  quite  simply.  She  ought  to  have 
laughed  and  changed  the  conversation.     But  it 


BACKWATER  217 

was  no  laughing  matter.  He  did  not  know  what 
he  was  saying  or  how  horribly  it  hurt.  A  worldly 
girl  would  chaff  and  make  fun  of  him.  It  was 
detestable  to  make  fun  of  men  ;  just  a  way  of 
flirting.  But  Sarah  said  that  being  rude  to  men 
or  talking  seriously  to  them  was  flirting  just  as 
much.  Not  true.  Not  true.  And  yet  it  was 
true,  she  did  want  to  feel  happy  walking  along 
with  this  man,  have  some  sort  of  good  under- 
standing with  him,  him  as  a  man  with  her  as  a 
woman.  Was  that  flirting  ?  If  so  she  was  just 
a  more  solemn  underhand  flirt  than  the  others, 
that  was  all.  She  felt  very  sad.  Anyhow  she  had 
asked  her  question  now.  She  looked  at  his  profile. 
Perhaps  he  would  put  her  off  in  some  way.  Then 
she  would  walk  slower  and  slower  until  Harriett 
and  Gerald  caught  them  up  and  come  home 
walking  four  in  a  row,  taking  Harriett's  arm. 
His  face  had  remained  quite  expressionless. 

"  W^ell,"  he  said  at  length  in  his  slow  well- 
modulated  tone,  "  I  always  take  care  to  get  out 
of  the  way  when  there  are  any  young  ladies 
about." 

"  When  do  you  mean  ?  "  /  didn't  ask  you  to 
come,  /  don't  want  to  talk  to  you  you  food-loving, 
pipe-loving,  comfort-loving  beast,  she  thought. 


2i8  BACKWATER 

But  it  would  be  impossible  to  finish  the  holiday 
and  go  back  to  the  school  with  this  strange  state- 
ment uninvestigated. 

"  Well,  when  my  sisters  have  young  ladies  in 
in  the  evening  I  always  get  out  of  the  way." 

Ah,  thought  Miriam,  you  are  one  of  those  men 
who  flirt  with  servants  and  shop-girls  .  .  .  perhaps 
those  awful  women.  .  .  .  Either  she  must  catch 
Eve  up  or  wait  for  Harriett  .  .  .  not  be  alone  any 
longer  with  this  man. 

"  I  see.  You  simply  run  away  from  them," 
she  said  scornfully  ;  "  go  out  for  a  wajk  or  some- 
thing." A  small  Brixton  sitting-room  full  of 
Brixton  girls — Gerald  said  that  Brixton  was 
something  too  chronic  for  words,  just  like  Clap- 
ham,  and  there  was  that  joke  about  the  man 
who  said  he  would  not  go  to  heaven  even  if  he 
had  the  chance  because  of  the  strong  Clapham 
contingent  that  would  be  there — after  all  .  .  . 

"  I  go  and  sit  in  my  room." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miriam  brokenly,  "  in  the  winter  ? 
Without  a  fire  ?  " 

Mr.  Parrow  laughed.  "  I  don't  mind  about 
that.    I  wrap  myself  up  and  get  a  book." 

"  What  sort  of  book  ?  " 

"  I've  got  a  few  books  of  my  own  ;  and  there's 


BACKWATER  219 

generally  something  worth  reading  in  '  Tit- 
Bits.'  " 

How  did  he  manage  to  look  so  refined  and  cul- 
tured ?  Those  girls  were  quite  good  enough  for 
him,  probably  too  good.  But  he  would  go  on 
despising  them  and  one  of  them  would  marry 
him  and  give  him  beef-steak  puddings.  And  here 
he  was  walking  by  the  sea  in  the  sunlight,  con- 
fessing his  suspicions  and  fears  and  going  back  to 
Brixton. 

"  You'll  have  to  marry  one  of  those  young 
ladies  one  day,"  she  said  abruptly. 

"  That's  out  of  the  question,  even  if  I  was  a 
marrying  man." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Miriam,  as  they  turned  down 
the  little  pathway  leading  towards  the  village. 
Poor  man,  how  cruel  to  encourage  him  to  take 
up  with  one  of  those  giggling  dressy  girls. 

"  D'you  mean  to  say  you've  been  never  speci- 
ally interested  in  anybody  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  never  have." 


Ovingdean  had  to  be  faced.  They  were  going 
to  look  at  Ovingdean  and  then  walk  back  to  the 
boarding-house  to  tea.     Now  that  she  knew  all 


220  BACKWATER 

about  his  home-life  she  would  not  be  able  to 
meet  his  eyes  across  the  table.  Two  tired  elm 
trees  stood  one  on  either  side  of  the  road  at  the 
entrance  to  the  village.  Here  they  all  gathered 
and  then  went  forward  in  a  strolling  party. 

When  they  turned  at  last  to  walk  home  and 
fell  again  into  couples  as  before,  Miriam  searched 
her  empty  mind  for  something  to  say  about  the 
dim,  cool  musty  church,  the  strange  silent  deeps 
of  it  there  amongst  the  great  green  downs,  the 
waiting  chairs,  the  cold  empty  pulpit  and  the 
little  cold  font,  and  the  sunlit  front  of  the  old 
Grange  where  King  Charles  had  taken  refuge. 
Mr.  Parrow  would  know  she  was  speaking  in- 
sincerely if  she  said  anything  about  these  things. 
There  was  a  long,  long  walk  ahead.  For  some 
time  they  walked  in  silence.  "  D'you  know  any- 
thing about  architecture  ?  "  she  said  at  last 
angrily  .  .  .  cruel  silly  question.  Of  course  he 
didn't.  But  men  she  walked  with  ought  to  know 
about  architecture  and  be  able  to  tell  her  things. 

"  No.  That's  a  subject  I  don't  know  anything 
about." 

"  D'you  like  churches  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I've  ever  thought  about 


BACKWATER  221 

"  Then  you  probably  don't." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  don't 
see  any  objection  to  them." 

"  Then  you're  probably  an  atheist." 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure." 

"  Do  you  go  to  church  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  do  in  the  usual  way,  unless  I'm 
on  a  holiday." 

"  Perhaps  you  go  for  walks  instead  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  generally  stay  in  bed  and  have  a 
rest." 

That  dreadful  room  with  the  dreadful  man 
hiding  in  it  and  reading  "  Tit-Bits "  and  staying 
in  bed  in  it  on  bright  Sunday  mornings. 

How  heavily  they  were  treading  on  the  orange 
and  yellow  faces  of  the  Tom  Thumbs  scattered 
over  the  short  green  grass. 

"  How  much  do  you  think  people  could  marry 
on  ?  "  said  Mr.  Parrow  suddenly  in  a  thin  voice. 

"  Oh  well,  that  depends  on  who  they  are." 

"  I  suppose  it  does  do  that." 

"  And  where  they  are  going  to  live." 

"  D'you  think  anyone  could  marry  on  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Miriam  emphatically,  men- 
tally shivering  over  the  vision  of  a  tiresome  deter- 


222  BACKWATER 

mined  cheerful  woman  with  a  thin  pinched 
reddish  nose,  an  everlasting  grey  hat  and  a  faded 
ulster  going  on  year  after  year  ;  two  or  three 
common  children  she  would  never  be  able  to 
educate,  with  horribly  over-developed  characters. 
It  was  rather  less  than  the  rent  of  their  house. 
"Of  course,  everything  would  depend  on  the 
woman,"  she  said  wisely.  After  all  a  hundred 
and  fifty,  with  no  doubt  and  anxiety  about  it 
was  a  very  wonderful  thing  to  have.  Probably 
everybody  was  wasteful,  buying  the  wrong  things 
and  silly  things,  ornaments  and  brooches  and 
serviette  rings ;  .  .  .  and  not  thinking  things  out 
and  not  putting  things  down  in  books  and  not 
really  enjoying  managing  the  hundred  and  fifty 
and  always  wanting  more.  It  ought  to  be  quite 
jolly  being  thoroughly  common  and  Hving  in  a 
small  way  and  having  common  neighbours  doing 
the  same. 

"  But  you  think  if  a  man  could  find  a  young 
lady  who  could  agree  about  prices  it  would  be 
possible." 

"  Of  course  it  would." 

The  houses  on  the  eastern  ridges  of  Brighton 
came  into  sight  in  the  distance  and  stood  blazing 
in  the  sunlight.    There  was  a  high  half  broken- 


BACKWATER  223 

down  piece  of  fencing  at  the  edge  of  the  cHif  to 
their  left  a  Httle  ahead  of  them,  spHntered  and 
sunht. 

"  How  much  a  week  is  a  hundred  and  fifty  a 
year  f  " 

"  Three  pound." 

They  gravitated  towards  the  fence  and  stood 
vaguely  near  it  looking  out  across  the  unruffled 
glare  of  the  open  sea.  Why  had  she  always 
thought  that  the  bright  blue  and  gold  ripples 
seen  from  the  beach  and  the  promenade  on  jolly 
weekdays  was  the  best  of  the  sea  ?  It  was  much 
more  lovely  up  there,  the  great  expanse  in  its 
quiet  Sunday  loneliness.  You  could  see  and  think 
about  far-off  things  instead  of  just  dreaming  on 
the  drowsy  hot  sands,  seeing  nothing  but  the 
rippling  stripes  of  bright  blue  and  bright  gold. 
She  put  her  elbows  on  the  upper  bar.  Mr. 
Parrow  did  the  same  and  they  stood  gazing  out 
across  the  open  sea — Mr.  Parrow  was  probably 
wondering  how  long  they  were  going  to  stand 
silently  there  and  thinking  about  his  tea  ...  of 
course  ;  let  him  stand — until  Eve's  voice  sounded 
near  them  in  a  dimpling  laugh.  They  walked 
home  in  a  row,  Eve  and  Mr.  Green  in  the  centre, 
asking  riddles  one  against  the  other.    Every  time 


224  BACKWATER 

Miriam    spoke    Mr.    Parrow   laughed    or    made 
some  little  responsive  sound. 

3 

When  Mr.  Green  and  Mr.  Parrow  went  back 
to  London  at  the  end  of  the  week  Eve  and  Miriam 
saw  them  off  at  the  station.  The  four  went  off 
boldly  together  down  the  flight  of  white  stone 
steps  and  made  their  way  up  into  the  town. 

"  Good-bye,"  called  Miss  Meldrum  affection- 
ately from  the  doorway.  "  I  shall  send  both  of 
you  a  copy  of  the  photograph." 

"  It's  most  generous  of  Miss  Meldrum  to  go 
to  all  that  expense  to  give  us  a  pleasant  memento," 
said  Mr.  Green  in  his  small  ringing  voice  as 
they  all  swung  out  into  the  clean  bare  roadway. 
Miriam  felt  as  if  they  were  a  bit  of  the  photo- 
graph walking  up  the  hill,  and  went  freely  and 
confidently  along  with  a  sense  of  being  steered 
and  guided  by  Miss  Meldrum.  Why  had  she 
had  the  group  taken — so  odd  and  bold  of  her, 
having  the  photographer  waiting  in  the  garden 
for  them  before  they  had  finished  breakfast,  and 
then  laughing  and  talking  and  pushing  them  all 
about  as  if  they  were  her  dearest  friends. 
It  was  whilst  they  were  all  out  in  the  garden 


BACKWATER  225 

together,  hanging  about  and  being  arranged, 
with  the  photographer's  voice  Hke  the  voice 
of  a  ventriloquist,  knocking  them  coldly  about, 
that  Gerald  and  Mr.  Green  had  arranged  about 
the  evening  at  the  Crystal  Palace  on  the  last 
day  of  Miriam's  holiday.  Miriam  had  held  back 
from  the  group,  feeling  nervous  about  her  hair, 
there  had  been  no  time  to  go  to  their  rooms, 
and  had  forced  Eve  to  do  the  same.  Harriett, 
with  a  cheerful  shiny  face,  was  sitting  on  the 
grass  with  Gerald  in  a  line  with  the  traveller 
from  Robinson  and  Cleaver's,  and  his  thin-voiced 
sheeny-haired  mocking  fiancee.  They  all  looked 
very  small  and  bald.  The  fiancee  kept  clearing 
her  throat  and  rearranging  her  smart  feet  and 
rattling  her  bangles.  The  traveller's  heavy  waxed 
moustache  was  crooked  and  his  slippery  blue  eyes 
looked  like  the  eyes  of  an  old  man.  Next  to  him 
were  two  newly  arrived  restively  sneering  young 
men,  one  on  either  side  of  the  saintly-faced 
florist's  assistant  from  Wigmore  Street,  who  sat 
in  an  easy  pose  with  her  skirt  draping  gracefully 
over  her  feet  and  her  long  white  chin  propped 
on  her  hands.  She  looked  reproachfully  about 
amongst  the  laughing  and  talking  and  seemed  to 
feel  that  they  were  all  in  church. 


226  BACKWATER 

Miss  Meldrum  and  Miss  Stringer,  the  two  bald 
Scotch  chemists  who  went  out  every  evening  to 
look  for  a  comet,  the  pale  frowning  girl  from 
Plaistow  with  her  mad-eyed  cousin  whose  grey 
curls  bunched  in  a  cherry-coloured  velvet  band 
seemed  to  say  "  death — death  "  to  Miriam  more 
dreadfully  out  here  amongst  the  greenery  than 
when  she  suddenly  caught  sight  of  them  at  table, 
sat  disconnectedly  in  chairs  behind  the  squatters 
on  the  grass.  At  the  last  moment  she  and  Eve 
were  obliged  to  fall  in  at  the  back  of  the  group 
with  Mr.  Green  and  Mr.  Parrow,  and  now  the 
four  of  them  were  walking  in  a  row  up  the  staring 
white  hill  with  the  evening  at  the  Crystal  Palace 
ahead  of  them  in  far-away  London.  It  was  quite 
right.  They  were  being  like  '  other  people.' 
People  met  and  made  friends  and  arranged  to 
meet  again.  And  then  things  happened.  It  was 
quite  right  and  ordinary  and  safe  and  warm.  Of 
course  Eve  and  Mr.  Green  must  meet  again.  He 
was  evidently  quite  determined  that  they  should. 
That  was  what  was  carrying  them  all  so  con- 
fidently up  the  hill.  Perhaps  he  would  in  the 
end  turn  into  another  Gerald.  When  they 
turned  off  into  the  unfamiliar  Brighton  streets 
Eve  and  Mr.  Green  went  on  ahead.     Walking 


BACKWATER  227 

quickly  in  step  along  the  narrow  pavement 
amongst  the  unconcerned  Brighton  townspeople 
they  looked  so  small  and  pitiful. 

4 

The  brilliant  sunlight  showed  up  all  the  shabbi- 
ness  of  Mr.  Green's  London  suit.  He  looked  even 
smaller  than  he  did  in  his  holiday  tweed.  Miriam 
wanted  to  call  to  them  and  stop  them,  stop  Eve's 
bright  figure  and  her  mop  of  thickly  twisted  brown 
hair  and  ask  her  what  she  was  dreaming  of,  leave 
the  two  men  there  and  go  back,  go  out  away 
alone  with  Eve  down  to  the  edge  of  the  sea. 
She  hesitated  in  her  walking,  not  daring  even  to 
glance  at  her  companion  who  was  trudging  along 
with  bent  head,  carrying  his  large  brown  leather 
bag.  The  street  was  crowded  and  she  manoeuvred 
so  that  everyone  they  met  should  pass  between 
them.  Perhaps  they  would  be  able  to  reach  the 
station  without  being  obliged  to  speak  to  each 
other.  Parrow.  It  was  either  quite  a  nice  name 
or  pitiful ;  like  a  child  trying  to  say  sparrow. 
Did  he  know  that  to  other  people  it  was  a  strange, 
important  sort  of  name,  rounded  like  the  padding 
in  the  shoulders  of  his  coat  and  his  blunted 
features  ? 


228  BACKWATER 

Nobody  knew  him  at  all  well.  Not  a  single 
person  in  the  world.  If  he  were  run  over  and 
killed  on  the  way  to  the  station,  nobody  would 
ever  have  known  anything  about  him.  .  .  .  People 
did  die  like  that  .  .  .  probably  most  people  ;  in  a 
minute,  alone  and  unknown  ;   too  late  to  speak. 

Something  was  coming  slowly  down  the  middle 
of  the  roadway  from  amongst  the  confusion  of 
the  distant  traffic  ;  an  elephant — a  large  grey 
elephant.  Firmly  delicately  undisturbed  by  the 
noise  of  the  street,  the  huge  crimson  gold-braided 
howdah  it  carried  on  its  back,  and  the  strange, 
coloured  things  coming  along  behind  it,  the 
thickening  of  people  on  the  pavement  and  the 
suddenly  increased  noise  of  the  town,  it  came 
stepping.  It  was  wonderful.  "  Wise  and  beauti- 
ful !  Wise  and  beautiful !  "  cried  a  voice  far 
away  in  Miriam's  brain.  It's  a  circus  said  another 
voice  within  her.  .  .  .  He  doesn't  know  he's  in 
a  circus.  .  .  .  She  hurried  forward  to  reach  Eve. 
Eve  turned  a  flushed  face.  "  I  say  ;  it's  a  circus," 
said  Miriam  bitingly.  The  blare  of  a  band  broke 
out  farther  up  the  street.  People  were  jostled 
against  them  by  a  clown  who  came  bounding 
and  leaping  his  way  along  the  crowded  pavement 
crying  incoherent  words  with  a  thrilling  blatter 


BACKWATER  229 

of  laughter.  The  elephant  was  close  upon  them 
alone  in  the  road  space  cleared  by  its  swinging 
walk.  ...  If  only  everyone  would  be  quiet  they 
could  hear  the  soft  padding  of  its  feet.  Slowly, 
gently,  modestly  it  went  by  followed  by  a  crowd 
of  smaller  things ;  sad-eyed  monkeys  on  horseback 
in  gold  coatlets,  sullen  caged  beasts  on  trolleys 
drawn  by  beribboned  unblinkered  human-looking 
horses,  tall  white  horses  pacing  singly  by,  bearing 
bobbing  princesses  and  men  in  masks  and  cloaks. 

5 
Here  and  there  in  the  long  sunlit  hours  of  the 
holiday  by  the  Brighton  sea  Miriam  found  the 
far-away  seaside  holidays  of  her  childhood. 
Going  out  one  afternoon  with  Eve  and  Miss 
Stringer  walking  at  Eve's  side,  listening  to  the 
conversation  of  the  two  girls,  she  had  felt  when 
they  reached  the  deserted  end  of  the  esplanade 
and  proposed  turning  round  and  walking  home, 
an  uncontrollable  desire  to  be  alone,  and  had  left 
them,  impatiently,  without  a  word  of  excuse 
and  gone  on  down  the  grey  stone  steps  and  out 
among  the  deserted  weed-grown  sapphire-pooled 
chalk  hummocks  at  the  foot  of  the  cUffs.  For  a 
while  she  was  chased  by  little  phrases  from  Miss 


230  BACKWATER 

Stringer's  quiet  talking — "  if  you  want  people  to 
be  interested  in  you,  you  must  be  interested  in 
them  "  ;  "  you  can  get  on  with  everybody  if 
you  make  up  your  mind  to  " — and  by  the  memory 
of  her  well-hung  clothes  and  her  quiet  regular 
features  spoilt  by  the  nose  that  Gerald  said  was 
old-maidish,  and  her  portmanteau  full  of  finery, 
unpacked  on  the  first-floor  landing  outside  the 
tiny  room  she  occupied — piles  of  underHnen 
startlingly  threaded  with  ribbons. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour's  thoughtless  wander- 
ing over  the  weed-grown  rocks  she  found  herself 
sitting  on  a  little  patch  of  dry  silt  at  the  end  of  a 
promontory  of  sea-smoothed  hummocks  with  the 
pools  of  bright  blue-green  fringed  water  all  about 
her  watching  the  gentle  rippling  of  the  retreating 
waves  over  the  weedy  lower  levels.  She  seemed 
long  to  have  been  listening  and  watching,  her 
mind  was  full  of  things  she  felt  she  would  never 
forget,  the  green-capped  white  faces  of  the  cliffs, 
a  patch  of  wet  sand  dotted  with  stiflly  waiting 
seagulls,  the  more  distant  wavelets  ink  black  and 
golden  pouring  in  over  the  distant  hummocks, 
the  curious  whispering  ripples  near  her  feet. 
She  must  go  back.  Her  mind  slid  out  making  a 
strange    half-familiar    compact    with    all    these 


BACKWATER  231 

things.  She  was  theirs,  she  would  remember 
them  all,  always.  They  were  not  alone  because 
she  was  with  them  and  knew  them.  She  had 
always  known  them  she  reflected,  remembering 
with  a  quick  pang  a  long,  unpermitted  wander- 
ing out  over  the  cliff  edge  beyond  Dawlish,  the 
sun  shining  on  pinkish  sandy  scrub,  the  expression 
of  the  bushes ;  hurrying  home  with  the  big 
rough  spaniel  that  belonged  to  the  house  they 
had  hired.  She  must  have  been  about  six  years 
old.  She  had  gone  back  with  a  secret,  telling 
them  nothing  of  the  sunlight  or  the  bushes,  only 
of  a  strange  lady,  sitting  on  the  jetty  as  she  came 
down  over  the  sands,  who  had  caught  her  in  her 
arms  and  horribly  kissed  her.  She  had  forgotten 
the  lady  and  been  so  happy  when  she  reached  home 
that  no  one  had  scolded  her.  And  when  they 
questioned  her  it  seemed  that  there  was  only  the 
lady  to  tell  them  about.  Her  mother  had  looked 
at  her  and  kissed  her.  And  now  she  must  go  back 
again,  and  say  nothing.  The  strange  promise,  the 
certainty  she  felt  out  here  on  the  rocks  must  be 
taken  back  to  the  Brighton  front  and  the  board- 
ing-house. It  would  disappear  as  soon  as  she  got 
back.  Here  on  the  Brighton  rocks  it  was  not  so 
strong  as  it  had  been  in  Dawlish.    And  it  would 


232  BACKWATER 

disappear  more  completely.  There  had  been 
during  the  intervening  years  holidays  with  Sarah 
and  Eve  and  Harriett  in  seaside  lodgings,  over 
which  the  curious  conviction  that  possessed  her 
now  had  spread  like  a  filmy  veil.  But  now  it 
would  hardly  ever  come ;  there  were  always 
people  talking,  the  strangers  one  worked  for,  or 
the  hard  new  people  like  Miss  Stringer,  people  who 
had  a  number  of  things  they  were  always  saying. 
She  tried  to  remember  when  the  strange  in- 
dependent joy  had  begun  and  thought  she  could 
trace  it  back  to  a  morning  in  the  garden  at  Bab- 
ington,  the  first  thing  she  could  remember,  when 
she  had  found  herself  toddling  alone  along  the 
garden  path  between  beds  of  flowers  almost  on  a 
level  with  her  head  and  blazing  in  the  sunlight. 
Bees  with  large  bodies  were  sailing  heavily  across 
the  path  from  bed  to  bed,  passing  close  by  her 
head  and  making  a  loud  humming  in  the  air. 
She  could  see  the  flowers  distinctly  as  she  walked 
quickly  back  through  the  afternoon  throng  on 
the  esplanade  ;  they  were  sweet  williams  and 
"  everlasting  "  flowers,  the  sweet  williams  smell- 
ing very  strongly  sweet  in  her  nostrils,  and  one 
sheeny  brown  everlasting  flower  that  she  had 
touched  with  her  nose,  smelling  like  hot  paper. 


BACKWATER  233 

6 

She  wanted  to  speak  to  someone  of  these 
things.  Until  she  could  speak  to  someone  about 
them  she  must  always  be  alone.  Always  quite 
alone,  she  thought,  looking  out  as  she  walked 
across  the  busy  stretch  of  sea  between  the  two 
piers,  dotted  with  pleasure  boats.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  speak  to  anyone  about  them  unless 
one  felt  perfectly  sure  that  the  other  person 
felt  about  them  in  the  same  way  and  knew  that 
they  were  more  real  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  knew  that  everything  else  was  a  fuss  about 
nothing.  But  everybody  else  seemed  to  be 
really  interested  in  the  fuss.  That  was  the  extra- 
ordinary thing.  Miss  Meldrum  presiding  at  the 
boarding-house  table  with  her  white  padded  hair 
and  her  white  face  and  bright  steady  brown  eyes, 
listening  to  everybody  and  making  jokes  with 
everybody  and  keeping  things  going,  sometimes 
looked  as  if  she  knew  it  was  all  a  pretence,  but  if 
you  spoke  to  her  she  would  think  you  were  talking 
about  religion  and  would  kiss  you.  She  had 
already  kissed  Miriam  once — for  playing  accom- 
paniments to  the  hymns  on  a  Sunday  evening, 
and  made  her  feel  as  if  there  were  some  sly  secret 


234  BACKWATER 

between  them.  If  she  played  the  hymns  again 
she  would  play  them  stonily  .  .  .  mother  would 
look  as  she  always  did  if  you  suddenly  began  to 
talk  anything  about  things  in  general  as  if  you 
were  going  to  make  some  confession  she  had  been 
waiting  for  all  her  life.  Now,  with  the  operation 
and  all  the  uncertainty  ahead  she  would  probably 
cry.  She  would  want  to  explain  in  some  way,  as 
she  had  done  one  day  long  ago ;  how  dreadful  it 
had  been  .  .  .  mother,  I  never  feel  tired,  not 
really  tired,  and  however  I  behave  I  always  feel 
frightfully  happy  inside  .  .  .  my  blessed  chick,  it's 
your  splendid  health — and  the  influence  of  the 
Holy  Spirit.  .  .  .  But  I  hate  everybody.  .  .  . 
What  foolish  nonsense.  You  mustn't  think  such 
things.    You  will  make  yourself  unpopular.  .  .  . 

She  must  keep  her  secret  to  herself.  This 
Brighton  life  crushed  it  back  more  than  anything 
there  had  been  in  Germany  or  at  Banbury  Park. 
In  Germany  she  had  found  it  again  and  again, 
and  at  Banbury  Park,  though  it  could  never  come 
out  and  surround  her,  it  was  never  far  off.  It 
lurked  just  beyond  the  poplars  in  the  park,  at 
the  end  of  the  little  empty  garden  at  twilight, 
amongst  the  books  in  the  tightly  packed  book- 
case.    It  was  here,  too,  in  and  out  the  sunlit 


BACKWATER  235 

days.  As  one  opened  the  door  of  the  large, 
sparely  furnished  breakfast-room  it  shone  for  a 
moment  in  the  light  pouring  over  the  table  full 
of  seated  forms ;  it  haunted  the  glittering  scat- 
tered sand  round  about  the  little  blank  platform 
where  the  black  and  white  minstrels  stood  singing 
in  front  of  their  harmonium,  and  poured  out 
across  the  blaze  of  blue  and  gold  sea  ripples,  when 
the  town  band  played  Anitra's  Dance  or  the 
moon  song  from  the  Mikado  ;  it  lay  all  along  the 
deserted  promenade  and  roadway  as  you  went 
home  to  lunch,  and  at  night  it  spoke  in  the  flump 
flump  of  the  invisible  sea  against  the  lower  wood- 
work of  the  pier  pavilion. 

7 

But  every  day  at  breakfast  over  the  eggs, 
bacon  and  tomatoes — knowing  voices  began  their 
day's  talking,  the  weary  round  of  words  and  ugly 
laughter  went  steadily  on,  narrow  horrible  sounds 
that  made  you  feel  conscious  of  the  insides  of 
people's  throats  and  the  backs  of  their  noses — 
as  if  they  were  not  properly  formed.  The  talk 
wa8  like  a  silly  sort  of  battle.  .  .  .  Innuendo, 
Miriam  would  say  to  herself,  feeling  that  the  word 
was  too  beautiful  for  what  she  wanted  to  express ; 


236  BACKWATER 

double  entendre  was  also  unsatisfactory.  These 
people  were  all  enemies  pretending  to  be  friends. 
Why  did  they  pretend  ?  Why  not  keep  quiet  ? 
Or  all  sing  between  their  eating,  different  songs, 
it  would  not  matter.  She  and  Eve  and  Harriett 
and  Gerald  did  sometimes  hum  the  refrains  of 
the  nigger  minstrels'  songs,  or  one  of  them  would 
hum  a  scrap  of  a  solo  and  all  three  sing  the  chorus. 
Then  people  were  quiet,  listening  and  smiling 
their  evil  smiles  and  Miss  Meldrum  was  delighted. 
It  seemed  improper  and  half-hearted  as  no  one 
else  joined  in  ;  but  after  the  first  few  days  the 
four  of  them  always  sang  between  the  courses 
at  dinner.  Gerald  did  not  seem  to  mind  the 
chaffy  talk  and  the  vulgar  jokes,  and  would  gener- 
ally join  in  ;  and  he  said  strange  disturbing  things 
about  the  boarders,  as  if  he  knew  all  about  them. 
And  he  and  Harriett  talked  to  the  niggers  too 
and  found  out  about  them.  It  spoilt  them  when 
one  knew  that  they  belonged  to  small  London 
musical  halls,  and  had  wives  and  families  and 
illnesses  and  trouble.  Gerald  and  Harriett  did 
not  seem  to  mind  this.  They  did  not  seem  to 
mind  anything  out  of  doors.  They  were  free 
and  hard  and  contemptuous  of  everyone  except 
the  niggers  and  a  few  very  stylish-looking  people 


BACKWATER  237 

who  sailed  along  and  took  no  notice  of  anybody. 
Gerald  said  extraordinary,  disturbing  things  about 
the  girls  on  the  esplanade.  Miriam  and  Eve  were 
interested  in  some  of  the  young  men  they  saw. 
They  talked  about  them  and  looked  out  for  them. 
Sometimes  they  exchanged  glances  with  them. 
Were  she  and  Eve  also  "  on  show  "  ;  waiting  to 
be  given  "  half  an  inch  "  ;  would  she  or  Eve  be 
"  perfectly  awful  in  the  dark  "  ?  Did  the  young 
men  they  specially  favoured  with  their  notice  say 
things  about  them  ?  When  these  thoughts  buzzed 
about  in  Miriam's  brain  she  wanted  to  take  a 
broom  and  sv/eep  everybody  into  the  sea.  .  .  . 
She  discovered  that  a  single  steady  unexpected 
glance,  meeting  her  own,  from  a  man  who  had 
the  right  kind  of  bearing — something  right  about 
the  set  of  the  shoulders — could  disperse  all  the 
vague  trouble  she  felt  at  the  perpetual  spectacle 
of  the  strolling  crowds,  the  stiffly  waiting  many- 
eyed  houses,  the  strange  stupid  bathing-machines, 
and  send  her  gaily  forward  in  a  glad  world  where 
there  was  no  need  to  be  alone  in  order  to  be 
happy.  A  second  encounter  was  sad,  shameful, 
ridiculous  ;  the  man  became  absurd  and  lost  his 
dignity  ;  the  joyous  sense  of  looking  through  him 
right  out  and  away  to  an  endless  perspective,  of 


238  BACKWATER 

being  told  that  the  endlessness  was  there  and 
telling  that  the  endlessness  was  there  had  gone ; 
the  eyes  were  eyes,  solid  and  mocking  and  help- 
less— to  be  avoided  in  future  ;  and  when  they  had 
gone,  the  sunset  or  the  curious  quivering  line 
along  the  horizon  were  no  longer  gateways,  but 
hard  barriers,  until  by  some  chance  one  was  tran- 
quilly alone  again — when  the  horizon  would 
beckon  and  lift  and  the  pathway  of  gold  across 
the  sea  at  sunset  call  to  your  feet  until  they 
tingled  and  ached. 

Life  was  ugly  and  cruel.  The  secret  of  the 
sea  and  of  the  evenings  and  mornings  must  be 
given  up.  It  would  fade  more  and  more.  What 
was  life  ?  Either  playing  a  part  all  the  time  in 
order  to  be  amongst  people  in  the  warm  or  stand- 
ing alone  with  the  strange  true  real  feeling — alone 
with  a  sort  of  edge  of  reality  on  everything ; 
even  on  quite  ugly  common  things — cheap  board- 
ing-houses   face    towels    and    blistered    window 

frames. 

8 

Since  Mr.  Green  and  Mr.  Parrow  had  left, 
they  had  given  up  going  to  pier  entertainments 
and  had  spent  most  of  their  time  sitting  in  a 
close  row  and  talking  together,  in  the  intervals 


BACKWATER  239 

of  the  black  and  white  minstrel  concerts  and  the 
performances  of  the  town  band.  They  had  drifted 
into  this  way  of  spending  their  time ;  there  was 
never  any  discussion  or  alteration  of  the  day's 
programme.  It  worked  like  a  charm  and  there 
was  no  sign  of  the  breaking  of  the  charm.  Miriam 
was  sometimes  half  afraid  just  as  they  settled 
themselves  down  that  someone,  probably  Gerald 
or  Eve  might  say  '  Funny,  isn't  it,  how  well  we 
four  get  on,'  and  that  strange  power  that  held 
them  together  and  kept  everything  away  would 
be  broken  before  the  holiday  came  to  an  end. 
But  no  one  did  and  they  went  on  sitting  together 
in  the  morning  on  the  hot  sand — the  moving 
living  glinting  sand  that  took  the  sting  as  soon  as 
you  touched  it  with  your  hand  out  of  everything 
there  might  be  in  the  latest  letter  from  home — 
hearing  the  niggers  from  ten  to  eleven,  bathing 
from  eleven  to  twelve,  sitting  afterwards  fresh 
and  tingling  and  drowsy  in  canopied  chairs  near 
the  band  until  dinner-time,  prowling  and  paddling 
in  the  afternoon  and  ranging  themselves  again  in 
chairs  for  the  evening. 

They  said  nothing  until  almost  the  end  of 
their  time  about  the  passage  of  the  days ;  but 
they  looked  at  each  other,  each  time  they  settled 


240  BACKWATER 

down,  with  conspiring  smiles  and  then  sat,  side 
by  side,  less  visible  to  each  other  than  the  great 
sunlit  sea  or  the  great  clean  salt  darkness,  stranded 
in  a  row  with  four  easy  idle  laughing  commenting 
voices,  away  alone  and  safe  in  the  gaiety  of  the 
strong  forgetful  air — talking  things  over.  The 
far-away  troublesome  crooked  things,  all  cramped 
and  painful  and  puzzling  came  out  one  by  one 
and  were  shaken  and  tossed  away  along  the  clean 
wind.  And  there  was  so  much  for  Gerald  to  hear. 
He  wanted  to  hear  everything — any  Httle  thing 
— "Just  like  a  girl;  it's  awfully  jolly  for  Harry 
he's  like  that.  She'll  never  be  lonely,"  agreed 
Miriam  and  Eve  privately.  ..."  He's  a  per- 
fect dear."  One  night  towards  the  end  of  their 
time  they  talked  of  the  future.  It  had  begun  to 
press  on  them.  There  seemed  no  more  time  for 
brooding  even  over  Eve's  fascinating  little  pictures 
of  life  in  the  big  country  house,  or  Miriam's  stories 
and  legends  of  Germany — she  said  very  little 
about  Banbury  Park  fearing  the  amazement  and 
disgust  of  the  trio  if  anything  of  the  reality  of 
North  London  should  reach  them  through  her 
talk  and  guessing  the  impossibility  of  their  realis- 
ing the  Pernes — or  Gerald's  rich  memories  of  the 
opulence  of  his  early  home  life,  an  atmosphere  of 


BACKWATER  241 

spending  and  operas  and  banquets  and  receptions 
and  distinguished  people.  During  the  evening, 
in  a  silent  interval,  just  as  the  band  was  tuning 
up  to  begin  its  last  tune,  Gerald  had  said  with 
quiet  emphasis,  "  Well,  anyhow,  girls,  you  mark 
my  words  the  old  man  won't  make  any  more 
money.  Not  another  penny.  You  may  as  well 
make  up  your  minds  to  that."  Then  the  band 
had  broken  into  their  favourite  Hungarian  dance. 
Three  of  them  sat  blissfully  back  in  their  deck 
chairs,  but  Miriam  remained  uncomfortably 
propped  forward,  eagerly  thinking.  The  music 
rushed  on,  she  saw  dancers  shining  before  her 
in  wild  groups,  in  the  darkness,  leaping  and  shout- 
ing, their  feet  scarcely  touching  the  earth  and  a 
wild  light  darted  about  them  as  they  shouted 
and  leapt.  "  Set  Mirry  up  in  some  sort  of 
business,"  quoted  her  mind  from  one  of  Gerald's 
recent  soliloquies.  She  knew  that  she  did  not 
want  that.  But  the  dancing  forms  told  her  of 
the  absurdity  of  going  back  without  protest  to 
the  long  aching  days  of  teaching  in  the  little 
school  amongst  those  dreadful  voices  which  were 
going,  whatever  she  did  for  them,  to  be  dreadful 
all  their  lives.  Nothing  she  could  do  would  make 
any  difference  to  them.     They  did  not  want  her. 


242  BACKWATER 

They  were  quite  happy.  Her  feelings  and 
thoughts,  her  way  of  looking  at  things,  her  desire 
for  space  and  beautiful  things  and  music  and 
quietude  would  never  be  their  desire.  Reverence 
for  things — ^had  she  reverence?  She  felt  she 
must  have  because  she  knew  they  had  not ;  even 
the  old  people  ;  only  superstition  .  .  .  North 
London  would  always  be  North  London,  hard, 
strong,  sneering,  money-making,  noisy  and 
trammy.  Perhaps  the  difference  between  the 
north  and  the  south  and  her  own  south-west  of 
London  was  like  the  difference  between  the  north 
and  the  south  of  England.  .  .  .  Green's  "  History 
of  the  English  People  "  .  .  .  spinning- Jennys  began 
in  the  Danish  north,  hard  and  cold,  with  later 
sunsets.  In  the  south  was  Somersetshire  lace. 
North  London  meant  twenty  pounds  a  year  and 
the  need  for  resignation  and  determination  eyery 
day.  Eve  had  thirty-five  pounds  and  a  huge 
garden  and  new  books  and  music  ...  a  book 
called  "  Music  and  Morals "  and  interesting 
people  staying  in  the  house.  And  Eve  had  not 
been  to  Germany  and  could  not  talk  French. 
"  You  are  an  idiot  to  go  on  doing  it.  It's  wrong. 
Lazy,"  laughed  the  dancers  crowding  and  fling- 
ing all  round  her.     "  I  ought,"  she  responded 


BACKWATER  243 

defiantly,  "  to  stay  on  and  make  myself  into  a 
certificated  teacher."  "  Certificated  ?  "  they 
screamed  wildly  sweeping  before  her  in  strange 
lines  of  light.  "  If  you  do  you  will  be  like  Miss 
Cramp.  Certificates — little  conceited  papers, 
and  you  dead.  Certificates  would  finish  you  off 
—Kill— Kill— Kill— A:z7/~A:z7/.^'"  Bang.  The 
band  stopped  and  Miriam  felt  the  bar  of  her  chair 
wounding  her  flesh.  The  trail  of  the  dancers 
flickered  away  across  the  sea  and  her  brain  was 
busily  dictating  her  letter  to  Miss  Perne  :  "  and 
therefore  I  am  obliged,  however  reluctantly,  to 
take  this  step,  as  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  me 
to  earn  a  larger  salary  at  once." 


CHAPTER    IX 


THE  Henderson  party  found  Mr.  Green  and 
Mr.  Parrow  waiting  in  the  dim  plank- 
floored  corridor  leading  from  the  station  to  the 
main  building  of  the  Crystal  Palace.  When  the 
quiet  greetings  were  over  and  they  had  arranged 
a  meeting-place  at  the  end  of  the  evening  in  case 
any  of  the  party  should  be  lost,  they  all  tramped 
on  up  the  resounding  corridor.  Miriam  found 
herself  bringing  up  the  rear  with  Mr.  Parrow. 
They  were  going  on  up  the  corridor,  through  the 
Palace  and  out  into  the  summer  evening.  They 
had  all  come  to  go  out  into  the  summer  evening 
and  see  the  fireworks.  All  but  she  had  come 
meaning  to  get  quite  near  to  the  '  set  pieces ' 
and  to  look  at  them.  She  had  not  said  anything 
about  meaning  to  get  as  far  away  from  the  fire- 
works as  possible.  She  had  been  trusting  to  Mr. 
Parrow  for  that.  Now  that  she  was  with  him 
she  felt  that  perhaps  it  was  not  quite  fair.    He 

244 


BACKWATER  245 

had  come  meaning  to  see  the  fireworks.  He  would 
be  disappointed.  She  would  be  obliged  to  tell 
him  presently,  when  they  got  out  into  the  night. 
They  were  all  tramping  quickly  up  along  the 
echoing  corridor.  No  one  seemed  to  be  talking, 
just  feet,  tramp,  tramp  on  the  planking,  rather 
quickly.  It  was  like  the  sound  of  workmen's  feet 
on  the  inside  scaffolding  of  a  half-built  house. 
The  corridor  was  like  something  in  the  Hospital 
for  Incurables .  .  .  that  strange  old  woman  sitting 
in  the  hall  with  bent  head  laughing  over  her 
crochet,  and  Miss  Garrett  whom  they  had  come 
to  see  sitting  up  in  bed,  a  curtained  bed  in  a 
ward,  with  a  pleated  mob  cap  all  over  the  top  of 
her  head  and  half-way  down  her  forehead,  sitting 
back  against  large  square  pillows  with  her  hands 
clasped  on  the  neat  bed-clothes  and  a  "  sweet, 
patient  "  look  on  her  face,  coughing  gently  and 
spitting,  spitting  herself  to  death  .  .  .  rushing 
away  out  of  the  ward  to  wait  for  mother  down- 
stairs in  the  hall  with  the  curious  smells  and  the 
dreadful  old  woman.  .  .  .  What  was  it,  chick  ? 
.  .  .  Sick,  mother,  I  felt  sick,  I  couldn't  stay. 
It  was  rage  ;  rage  with  that  dreadful  old  woman. 
People  probably  told  her  she  was  patient  and 
sweet,  and  she  had  got  that  trick  of  putting  her 


246  BACKWATER 

head  on  one  side.  She  was  not  sweet.  She  was 
one  of  the  worst  of  those  dreadful  people  who 
would  always  make  people  believe  in  a  particular 
way,  all  the  time.  She  had  a  great  big  frame. 
If  she  had  done  anything  but  sit  as  she  sat,  in 
that  particular  way,  one  could  have  stayed. 

They  were  all  standing  looking  at  some  wonder- 
ful sort  of  clock,  a  calendar-clock — '  a  triumph 
of  ingenuity,'  said  Mr.  Green's  bright  reedy 
voice.  The  building  had  opened  out  and  rushed 
up,  people  were  passing  to  and  fro.  "  We  don't 
want  to  stay  inside ;  let's  go  out,"  said  Gerald. 
The  group  broke  into  couples  again  and  passed 
on.  Miriam  found  herself  with  Mr.  Parrow  once 
more.  Of  course  she  would  be  with  him  all  the 
evening.  She  must  tell  him  at  once  about  the 
fireworks.  She  ought  not  to  have  come,  if  she 
did  not  mean  to  see  the  fireworks.  It  was  mean 
and  feeble  to  cheat  him  out  of  his  evening. 
Why  had  she  come  ;  to  wander  about  with  him, 
not  seeing  the  fireworks.  What  an  idiotic  and 
abominable  thing.  Now  that  she  was  here  at  his 
side  it  was  quite  clear  that  she  must  endure  the 
fireworks.  Anything  else  would  be  like  asking 
him  to  wander  about  with  her  alone.  She  did 
not  want  to  wander  about  with  him  alone.    She 


BACKWATER  247 

took  an  opportunity  of  joining  Eve  for  a  moment. 
They  had  just  walked  through  a  winter  garden 
and  were  standing  at  the  door  of  a  concert  room, 
all  quite  silent  and  looking  very  shy.  "  Eve," 
she  said  hurriedly  in  a  low  tone,  "  d'you  want 
to  see  the  beastly  fireworks  ?  " 

"  Beastly  ?  Oh,  of  course,  I  do,"  said  Eve  in  a 
rather  loud  embarrassed  tone.  How  dreadfully 
self-conscious  they  all  were.  Somebody  seemed  to 
be  speaking.  "  What  sticks  my  family  are — I  had 
no  idea,"  muttered  Miriam  furiously  into  Eve's 
face.  Eve's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  she  stood 
perfectly  still,  saying  nothing.  Miriam  wheeled 
round  and  stared  into  the  empty  concert  room. 
It  was  filled  with  a  faint  bluish  light  and  beyond 
the  rows  of  waiting  chairs  and  the  empty  platform 
a  huge  organ  stood  piled  up  towards  the  roof. 
The  party  were  moving  on.  What  a  queer 
place  the  Crystal  Palace  is  .  .  .  what  a  perfectly 
horrible  place  for  a  concert  .  .  .  pianissimo  pas- 
sages and  those  feet  on  those  boards  tramping 
about  outside.  .  .  .  What  a  silly  muddle.  Mr. 
Parrow  was  waiting  for  her  to  join  the  others. 
They  straggled  along  past  booths  and  stalls, 
meeting  groups  of  people,  silent  and  lost  like 
themselves.     Now  they  were  passing  some  kind 


248  BACKWATER 

of  stonework  things,  reliefs,  antique,  roped  off 
like  the  seats  in  a  church.  Just  in  front  of  them 
a  short  man  holding  the  red  cord  in  his  hands 
was  looking  at  a  group  with  some  ladies.  "  Why,^^ 
he  said  suddenly  in  a  loud  cheerful  voice,  stretch- 
ing an  arm  out  across  the  rope  and  pointing  to 
one  of  the  reliefs,  "  it's  Auntie  and  Grandma !  " 
Miriam  stared  at  him  as  they  passed,  he  was  so 
short,  shorter  than  any  of  the  ladies  he  was  with. 
"  It's  the  only  way  to  see  these  things,"  he  said 
in  the  same  loud  harsh  cheerful  voice.  Miriam 
laughed  aloud.    What  a  clever  man. 

"  Do  you  Hke  statues  ?  "  said  Mr.  Parrow  in  a 
low  gentle  tone. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  them,"  said 
Miriam. 

"  I  can't  bear  fireworks,"  she  said  hurriedly. 

They  were  in  the  open  at  last.  In  the  deepen- 
ing twilight  many  people  were  going  to  and  fro. 
In  the  distance  soft  dark  masses  of  trees  stood 
out  against  the  sky  in  every  direction.  Not  far 
away  the  ghostly  frames  of  the  set  pieces  reared 
against  the  sky  made  the  open  evening  seem  as 
prison-like  as  the  enclosure  they  had  just  left. 
Round  about  the  scaffolding  of  these  pieces  dense 
little  crowds  were  collecting. 


BACKWATER  249 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  the  fireworks  ?  " 
"  I  want  to  get  away  from  them.'* 
"  All  right,  we'll  get  lost  at  once." 
"  It  isn't,"  she  explained  a  httle  breathlessly, 
in  relief,  suddenly  respecting  him,  allowing  him 
to  thread  a  way  for  her  through  the  increasing 
crowd  towards  the  open  evening,  "  that  I  don't 
want  to  see  the  fireworks,  but  I  simply  can't 
stand  the  noise." 

"  I  see,"  laughed  Mr.  Parrow  gently.  They 
were  making  towards  the  open  evening  along  a 
narrow  gravel  pathway,  like  a  garden  pathway. 
Miriam  hurried  a  little,  fearing  that  the  fireworks 
might  begin  before  they  got  to  a  safe  distance. 

*'  I  never  have  been  able  to  stand  a  sudden 
noise.     It's  torture  to  me  to  walk  along  a  plat- 
form where  a  train  may  suddenly  shriek." 
"  I  see.    You're  afraid  of  the  noise." 
"  It  isn't  fear — I  can't  describe  it.    It's  agony. 
It's  like  pain.    But  much  much  worse  than  pain. 
It's — it's — annihilating." 
"  I  see  ;  that's  very  peculiar." 
Their  long  pathway  was  leading  them  towards 
a  sweet-scented  density,  dim  bowers  and  leafy 
arches  appeared  just  ahead. 
"  It  was  much  worse  even  than  it  is  now  when 


250  BACKWATER 

I  was  a  little  thing.  When  we  went  to  the  sea- 
side I  used  to  sit  in  the  train  nearly  dead  until 
it  had  screamed  and  started.  And  there  was  a 
teacher  who  sneezed — a  noise  like  a  hard  scream 
— at  school.  She  used  to  go  on  sneezing — twenty- 
times  or  so.  I  was  only  six  and  I  dreaded  going 
to  school  just  for  that.  Once  I  cried  and  they 
took  me  out  of  the  room.  I've  never  told  anyone. 
Nobody  knows." 

"  You've  told  me." 

"  Yes." 

"  It's  very  interesting.  You  shan't  go  any- 
where near  the  fireworks." 

2 

A  large  rosy  flare,  wavering  steadily  against 
the  distant  trees  showed  up  for  a  moment  the 
shapes  and  traceries  of  climbing  plants  surround- 
ing their  retreat.  A  moment  afterwards  with  a 
dull  boom  a  group  of  white  stars  shot  up  into 
the  air  and  hovered,  melting  one  by  one  as  the 
crowd  below  moaned  and  crackled  its  applause. 

Miriam  laughed  abruptly.  "  That's  jolly. 
How  clever  people  are.  But  it's  much  better 
up  here.  It's  like  not  being  too  near  at  the 
theatre." 


BACKWATER  251 

"  I  think  we've  got  the  best  view  certainly." 

"  But  we  shall  miss  the  set  pieces." 

"  The  people  down  there  won't  see  the  rosary." 

"  What's  that  black  thing  on  our  left  down 
there  ?  " 

"  That's  the  toboggan  run.  We  ought  to  go 
on  that." 

''  What  is  it  like  ?  " 

"  It's  fine  ;  you  just  rush  down.  We  must 
try  it." 

"  Not  for  worlds." 

Mr.  Parrow  laughed.  "  Oh  you  must  try  the 
toboggan  ;   there's  no  noise  about  that." 

"  I  really  couldn't." 

"  Really  ?  " 

"  Absolutely.  I  mean  it.  Nothing  under  the 
sun  would  induce  me  to  go  on  a  toboggan." 

They  sat  watching  the  fireworks  until  they  were 
tired  of  the  whistling  rockets,  showers  of  stars 
and  golden  rain,  the  flaming  bolts  that  shot  up 
from  the  Battle  of  the  Nile,  the  fizzlings  and  fire 
spurtings  of  the  set  pieces  and  the  recurrent 
moanings  and  faint  patterings  of  applause  from 
the  crowd. 

"  I  wish  they'd  do  some  more  coloured  flares 
of  light  up  the  trees  like  they  did  at  first.     It 


252  BACKWATER 

was  beautiful — more  real  than  these  things. 
*  Feu  d'artifice  '  artificial  fire — all  these  noisy- 
things.  Why  do  people  always  like  a  noise  ? 
Men.  All  the  things  men  have  invented,  trains 
and  canons  and  things  make  a  frightful  noise." 

"  The  toboggan's  not  noisy.  Come  and  try 
the  toboggan." 

"  Oh  no." 

"  Well — there's  the  lake  down  there.  We 
might  have  a  boat." 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  manage  a  boat  ?  " 

"  I've  been  on  once  or  twice ;  if  you  like  to 
try  I'll  manage." 

"  No ;  it's  too  dark."  What  a  plucky  man. 
But  the  water  looked  cold.  And  perhaps  he  would 
be  really  stupid. 

A  solitary  uniformed  man  was  yawning  and 
whistling  at  the  top  of  the  deserted  toboggan 
run.  The  faint  light  of  a  lamp  fell  upon  the 
square  platform  and  the  little  sled  standing  in 
place  at  the  top  of  a  shiny  slope  which  shot  steeply 
down  into  blackness. 

"  We'd  better  get  on,"  said  Miriam  trembling, 

"  Well,  you're  very  graceful  at  giving  in,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Parrow,  handing  her  into  the  sled  and 
settling  with  the  man. 


BACKWATER  253 

He  got  that  sentence  out  of  a  book,  thought 
Miriam  wildly  as  she  heard  the  man  behind  them 
say  "  Ready  ?  Off  you  go  !  "  .  .  .  Out  of  a 
book  a  book  a  book — Oh — ooooh — ^how  dhsolutely 
glorious,  she  yelled  as  they  shot  down  through 
the  darkness.  Oh^  she  squealed  into  the  face 
laughing  and  talking  beside  her.  She  turned 
away,  shouting,  for  the  final  rush,  they  were 
flying — involuntarily  her  hand  flung  out,  they 
were  tearing  headlong  into  absolute  darkness,  and 
was  met  and  firmly  clasped.  They  shot  slacken- 
ing up  a  short  incline  and  stood  up  still  hand  in 
hand,  laughing  incoherently. 

"  Let's  walk  back  and  try  again,"  said  Mr. 
Parrow. 

"  Oh  no  ;  I  enjoyed  it  most  frightfully  ;  but 
we  mustn't  go  again.  Besides,  it  must  be  fear- 
fully late." 

She  pulled  at  her  hand.  The  man  was  too  near 
and  too  big.  His  hand  was  not  a  bit  uncertain 
like  his  speech,  and  for  a  moment  she  was  glad 
that  she  pulled  in  vain.  "  Very  well,"  said  Mr, 
Parrow,  "  but  we  must  find  our  way  off  the  grass 
and  strike  the  pathway."  Drawing  her  gently 
along,  he  peered  about  for  the  track.  "  Let  me 
go,"  said  her  hand  dragging  gently  at  his.    "  No  " 


254  BACKWATER 

said  the  firm  enclosure,  tightening  "  not  yet." 
What  does  it  matter  ?  flashed  her  mind.  Why 
should  I  be  such  a  prude  ?  The  hand  gave  her 
confidence.  It  was  firm  and  strong  and  perfectly 
serious.  It  was  a  hand  like  her  own  hand  and 
comfortingly  strange  and  different.  Gently  and 
slowly  he  guided  her  over  the  dewy  grass.  The 
air  that  had  rushed  so  wildly  by  them  a  few 
minutes  ago  was  still  and  calm  and  friendly ; 
the  distant  crowd  harmless  and  insignificant. 
The  fireworks  were  over.  The  pathway  they  had 
missed  appeared  under  their  feet  and  down  it 
they  walked  soberly,  well  apart,  but  still  hand  in 
hand  until  they  reached  the  borders  of  the  dis- 
persing crowd. 


CHAPTER    X 


WHEN  Miriam  sat  talking  everything  over 
with  the  Pernes  at  supper,  on  the  first 
night  of  the  term,  detached  for  ever  from  the 
things  that  engrossed  them,  the  school- work, 
Julia  Doyle's  future,  the  peculiarities  of  the 
visiting  teachers,  the  problem  of  the  "  unnatural 
infatuation  "  of  two  of  the  boarders  with  each 
other,  the  pros  and  cons  of  a  revolutionary  plan 
for  taking  the  girls  in  parties  to  the  principal 
London  museums,  she  made  the  most  of  her 
triumphant  assertion  that  she  had  absolutely 
nothing  in  view.  She  found  herself  decorously 
waiting,  armed  at  all  points,  through  the  silent 
interval  while  the  Pernes  took  in  the  facts  of  her 
adventurous  renunciation.  She  knew  at  once 
that  she  would  have  to  be  desperately  determined. 
.  .  .  But  after  all  they  could  not  do  anything 
with  her. 

Sitting  there,  in  the  Perne  boat,  still  taking  an 
oar  and  determined  to  fling  herself  into  the  sea 

255 


2s6  BACKWATER 

.  .  .  she  ought  not  to  have  told  them  she  was 
leaving  them  just  desperately,  without  anything 
else  in  prospect ;  because  they  were  so  good,  not 
like  employers.  They  would  all  feel  for  her.  It 
was  just  like  speaking  roughly  at  home.  Well,  it 
was  done.  She  glanced  about.  Miss  Haddie, 
across  the  table  behind  her  habitual  bowl  of 
bread  and  milk  had  a  face — the  face  of  a  child 
surprised  by  injustice.  '  I  was  right — I  was 
right,'  Miriam  gasped  to  herself  as  the  light 
flowed  in.  '  I'm  escaping — just  in  time.  .  .  . 
Emotional  tyranny.  .  .  .  What  a  good  expression. 
.  .  .  that's  the  secret  of  Miss  Haddie.  It  was 
awful.  She's  lost  me.  I'm  free.  Emotional 
tyranny.'  .  .  .  '  My  hat,  Mirry,  you're  beyond 
me.  How  much  do  you  charge  for  that  one. 
Say  it  again,'  she  seemed  to  hear  Gerald's 
friendly  voice.  Go  away  Gerald.  True.  True. 
All  the  truth  and  meaning  of  her  friendship  with 
Miss  Haddie  in  one  single  flash.  How  fearfully 
interesting  life  was.  Miss  Haddie  wrestling  with 
her,  fighting  for  her  soul ;  praying  for  her,  almost 
driving  her  to  the  early  service  and  always  ready 
to  quiver  over  her  afterwards  and  to  ask  her  if 
she  had  been  happy.  .  .  .  And  now  angry  be- 
cause she  was  escaping. 


BACKWATER  257 

She  appealed  to  Miss  Deborah  and  met  a 
flash  of  her  beautiful  soft  piercing  eyes.  Her 
delicate  features  quivered  and  wrinkled  almost 
to  a  smile.  But  Miss  Deborah  was  afraid  of  Miss 
Jenny  who  was  already  thinking  and  embarking 
on  little  sounds.  Miriam  got  away  for  a  moment 
in  a  tumult,  with  Miss  Deborah.  '  Oh,'  she 
shouted  to  her  in  the  depths  of  her  heart,  '  you 
are  heavenly  young.  You  know.  Life's  like 
Robinson  Crusoe.  Your  god's  a  great  big  Robin- 
son Crusoe.  You  know  that  anything  may  happen 
any  minute.  And  it's  all  right.  She  laughed 
and  shook  staring  at  the  salt-cellar  and  then 
across  at  Miss  Haddie  whose  eyes  were  full  of 
dark  fear.  Miss  Haddie  was  alone  and  outraged. 
'  She  thinks  I'm  a  fraud  besides  being  vulgar 
.  .  .  life  goes  on  and  she'll  wonder  and  wonder 
about  me  puzzled  and  alone.'  .  .  .  She  smiled 
at  her  her  broadest,  happiest,  home  smile,  one 
she  had  never  yet  reached  at  Banbury  Park. 
Flushing  scarlet  Miss  Haddie  smiled  in  return. 

"  Eh — my  dear  girl,"  Miss  Jenny  was  saying 
diffidently  at  her  side,  "  isn't  it  a  little  unwise — 
very  unwise — under  the  circumstances — ^with  the 
difficulties — well,  in  fact  with  all  ye've  just  told 
us — have  ye  thought  ?  "  When  Miriam  reached 
s 


258  BACKWATER 

her  broad  smile  Miss  Jenny  stopped  and  suddenly 
chuckled.  "  My  dear  Miriam  !  I  don't  know. 
I  suppose  we  don't  know  ye.  I  suppose  we 
haven't  really  known  ye  as  ye  are.  But  come,  have 
ye  thought  it  out  ?  No,  ye  haven't,"  she  ended 
gravely,  looking  along  the  table  and  flicking  with 
her  forefinger  the  end  of  her  little  red  nose. 

Miriam  glanced  at  her  profile  and  her  insecure 
disorderly  bunch  of  hair.  Miss  Jenny  was  for- 
midable. She  would  recommend  certificates. 
Her  eye  wavered  towards  Miss  Deborah. 

"  My  dear  Jenny,"  said  Miss  Deborah  promptly, 
"  Miriam  is  not  a  child.  She  must  do  as  she 
thinks  best." 

"  But  don't  ye  see  my  point,  my  dear  De- 
borah ?  I  don't  say  she's  a  child.  She's  a  mad- 
cap. That's  it."  She  paused.  "  Of  course  I 
daresay  she'll  fall  on  her  feet.  Ye're  a  most 
extraordinary  gel.  I  don't  know.  Of  course  ye 
can  come  back — or  stay  here  in  yer  holidays.  Ye 
know  that^  my  dear,"  she  concluded,  suddenly 
softening  her  sharp  little  voice. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,"  cried  Miriam  with  tear- 
filled  eyes.  They  were  one  person  in  the  grip  of 
a  decision.  Miss  Haddie  sat  up  and  moved  her 
elbows  about.    All  four  pairs  of  eyes  held  tears. 


BACKWATER  259 

"  My  dear — I  wish  we  could  give  ye  more, 
Miriam,"  murmured  Miss  Jenny ;  "  we  don't 
want  to  lose  ye,  ye've  pulled  the  lower  school 
together  in  a  remarkable  way  "  ;  Miss  Deborah 
was  drawing  little-  breaths  of  protest  at  this 
descent  into  gross  detail ;  "  the  children  are 
interested.  We  hear  that  from  the  parents.  We 
shall  be  able  to  give  ye  excellent  testimonials." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  about  that,"  responded 
Miriam  desperately.  *  Fancy — Great  Scott — 
parents — behind  all  my  sore  throats — I've  never 
heard  about  that.  It's  all  coming  out  now,'  she 
thought. 

"  Well — my     dear — now "    began     Miss 

Jenny  hesitatingly.  Feeling  herself  slipping, 
Miriam  clung  harshly  to  her  determination  and 
drew  herself  up  to  offer  the  set  of  the  pretty 
blouse  Gerald  and  Harriett  had  bought  her  in 
Brighton  as  a  seal  on  her  irrevocable  decision  to 
break  with  Banbury  Park.  It  was  a  delicate  sheeny 
green  silk,  with  soft  tuckers. 

"  What  steps  have  ye  taken  ?  "  asked  Miss  Jenny 
in  a  quizzical  business-like  tone. 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Miriam  formally, 
and  went  on  to  hint  vaguely  and  convincingly  at 
the  existence  of  some  place  in  a  family  in  the 


i6o  BACKWATER 

country  that  would  be  sure  to  fall  to  her  lot 
through  the  many  friends  to  whom  Eve  had 
written  on  her  behalf,  turning  away  from  the 
feast  towards  the  freedom  of  the  untenanted 
part  of  the  room.  The  sitting  had  to  be  brought 
to  an  end.  ...  In  a  moment  she  would  be  utterly 
routed.  .  .  .  Her  lame  statements  were  the  end 
of  the  struggle.  She  knew  she  was  demonstrating 
in  her  feeble  broken  tones  a  sort  of  blind  strength 
they  knew  nothing  of  and  that  they  would  leave 
it  at  that,  whatever  they  thought,  if  only  there 
were  no  more  talk. 

2 

When  they  had  left  the  room  and  Flora  came 
in  for  the  supper  things,  instead  of  sitting  as 
usual  at  the  far  end  of  the  table  pretending  to 
read,  she  stood  planted  on  the  hearthrug  watching 
her.  Flora's  hands  were  small  and  pale  and 
serenely  despairing  like  her  face.  She  cleared  the 
table  quietly.  She  had  nothing  to  hope  for. 
She  did  not  know  she  had  nothing  to  hope  for. 
Whatever  happened  she  would  go  quietly  on 
doing  things  ...  in  the  twilight  ...  on  a  sort  of 
edge.  People  would  die.  Perhaps  people  had 
already  died  in  her  family.  But  she  would  always 
be  the  same.    One  day  she  would  die,  perhaps  of 


BACKWATER  261 

something  hard  and  slow  and  painful  with  that 
small  yellowish  constitution. 

She  would  not  be  able  to  go  on  looking  serene 
and  despairing  with  people  round  her  bed  helping 
her.  When  she  died  she  would  wait  quietly  with 
nothing  to  do,  blind  and  wondering.  Death 
would  take  her  into  a  great  festival — things  for  her 
for  herself.  She  would  not  believe  it  and  would 
put  up  her  hands  to  keep  it  off.  But  it  would 
be  all  round  her  in  great  laughter,  like  the  deep 
roaring  and  crying  of  a  flood.  Then  she  would 
cry  like  a  child. 

Why  was  it  that  for  some  people,  for  herself, 
life  could  be  happy  now.  It  was  possible  now 
to  hear  things  laugh  just  by  setting  your  teeth 
and  doing  things  ;  breaking  into  things,  chucking 
things  about,  refusing  to  be  held.  It  made  even 
the  dreadful  past  seem  wonderful.  All  the  days 
here,  the  awful  days,  each  one  awful  and  hateful 
and  painful. 

Flora  had  gathered  up  her  tray  and  disappeared, 
quietly  closing  the  door.  But  Flora  had  known 
and  somehow  shared  her  triumph,  felt  her  posi- 
tion in  the  school  as  she  stood  planted  and  happy 
in  the  middle  of  the  Pernes'  hearthrug. 


262  BACKWATER 

3 

"  An  island  is  a  piece  of  land  entirely  sur- 
rounded by  water." 

Miriam  kept  automatically  repeating  these 
words  to  herself  as  the  newly  returned  children 
clung  about  her  the  next  morning  in  the  school- 
room. It  was  a  morning  of  heavy  wind  and  rain 
and  the  schoolroom  was  dark,  and  chilly  with 
its  summer-screened  fireplace.  The  children 
seemed  to  her  for  the  first  time  small  and 
pathetic.  She  was  deserting  them.  After  fifteen 
months  of  strange  intimacy  she  was  going  away 
for  ever. 

During  the  usual  routine  days  the  little  girls 
always  seemed  large  and  formidable.  She  was 
quite  sure  they  were  not  so  to  the  other  teachers, 
and  she  hesitated  when  she  thought  over  this 
difference,  between  the  explanation  which  ac- 
counted for  their  size  and  redoubtableness  by 
her  own  feebleness  and  the  one  to  which  she 
inclined  when  she  felt  her  success  as  a  teacher. 

She  had  discovered  that  the  best  plan  was  to 
stand  side  by  side  with  the  children  in  face  of 
the  things  they  had  to  learn,  treating  them  as 
equals   and    fellow-adventurers,   giving   explana- 


BACKWATER  263 

tions  when  these  were  necessary,  as  if  they  were 
obvious  and  might  have  been  discovered  by  the 
children  themselves,  never  as  if  they  were  pos- 
sessions of  her  own,  to  be  imparted,  never  claim- 
ing a  knowledge  superior  to  their  own.  *  The 
business  of  the  teacher  is  to  make  the  children 
independent,  to  get  them  to  think  for  them- 
selves, and  that's  much  more  important  than 
whether  they  get  to  know  facts,'  she  would  say 
irrelevantly  to  the  Pernes  whenever  the  question 
of  teaching  came  up.  She  bitterly  resented  their 
vision  of  children  as  malleable  subordinates.  And 
there  were  many  moments  when  she  seemed  to 
be  silently  exchanging  this  determination  of  hers 
with  her  pupils.  Good  or  bad,  she  knew  it  was 
the  secret  of  her  influence  with  them,  and  so 
long  as  she  was  faithful  to  it  both  she  and  they 
enjoyed  their  hours  together.  Very  often  she 
was  tired,  feeble  with  fatigue  and  scamping  all 
opportunities ;  this  too  they  understood  and 
never  took  advantage  of  her.  One  or  two  of  them 
would  even  when  she  failed  try  to  keep  things 
going  on  her  own  method.  All  this  was  sheer 
happiness  to  her,  the  bread  and  wine  of  her  days. 
But  now  and  again,  perhaps  during  the  mid- 
morning  recess,  this  impersonal  relationship  gave 


264  BACKWATER 

way  and  the  children  clung  fawning  all  round  her, 
passionately  competing  for  nearness,  touching  and 
clinging  and  snatching  for  kisses.  There  was  no 
thought  or  uprightness  or  laughter  then,  their 
hands  were  quick  and  eloquent  and  their  eyes 
wide  and  deeply  smiling  with  those  strange 
women's  smiles.  Sometimes  she  could  respond 
in  kind,  answering  to  their  smiles  and  caresses, 
making  gentle  foolish  sounds  and  feeling  their 
passion  rise  to  a  frenzy  of  adoration.  The  Httle 
deprecating  consoling  sounds  that  they  made  as 
they  clung  told  her  that  if  she  chose  steadily  to 
remain  always  gentle  and  deprecating  and  con- 
soling and  reproachful  she  could  dominate  them 
as  persons  and  extort  in  the  long  run  a  completer' 
personal  obedience  to  herself,  so  that  they  would 
do  their  work  for  her  sake  and  live  by  and  through 
her,  adoring  her — as  a  goddess — and  hating  her. 
Even  as  they  fawned  she  knew  they  were  fighting 
between  their  aching  desire  for  a  perfection  of 
tenderness  in  her  and  their  fear  lest  she  should 
fulfil  the  desire.  She  was  always  tempted  for  an 
instant  to  yield  and  fling  herself  irrevocably  into 
the  abyss,  letting  the  children  go  on  one  by  one 
into  the  upper  school,  carrying  as  her  gift  only  a 
passionate  memory  such  as  she  herself  had  for 


BACKWATER  265 

one  of  her  nursemaids  ;  leaving  her  downstairs 
with  an  endless  succession  of  new  loves,  different, 
but  always  the  same.  She  would  become  like  a 
kind  of  nun,  making  a  bare  subsistence,  but  so 
beloved  always,  so  quivering  and  tender  and  re- 
sponsive that  human  love  would  never  fail  her, 
and  when  strength  failed  there  would  be  hands 
held  out  to  shelter  her  decline.  But  the  vision 
never  held  her  for  more  than  a  moment.  There 
was  something  in  the  thought  of  such  pure  per- 
sonal sentiment  that  gave  her  a  feeling  of  treachery 
towards  the  children.  Mentally  she  flung  them 
out  and  off,  made  them  stand  upright  and  es- 
tranged. She  could  not  give  them  personal  love. 
She  did  not  want  to  ;/nor  to  be  entangled  with 
them.  They  were  going  to  grow  up  into  North 
London  women,  most  of  them  loudly  scorning 
everything  that  was  not  materially  profitable  ; 
these  would  remember  her  with  pity — amuse- 
ment. A  few  would  escape.  These  would  remem- 
ber her  at  strange  moments  that  were  coming 
for  them,  moments  when  they  would  recognise 
the  beauty  of  things  like  '  the  Psalm  of  Life  ' 
that  she  had  induced  them  to  memorise  without 
understanding  it. 

This  morning  a  sense  of  their  softness   and 


266  BACKWATER 

helplessness  went  to  her  heart.  She  had  taught 
them  so  little.  But  she  had  forced  them  to  be 
impersonal.  Almost  savagely  she  had  done  that. 
She  had  never  taken  them  by  a  trick.  .  .  . 

4 

And  now  they  were  going  to  be  Julia's  children. 

Julia  would  teach  them — alone  there  in  the 
room  with  them,  filling  the  room  for  them — in 
her  own  way.  .  .  . 

There  would  be  no  more  talk  about  general 
ideas.  .  .  . 

She  would  have  to  keep  on  the  "  object " 
lessons,  because  the  Pernes  had  been  so  pleased 
with  the  idea  and  the  children  had  liked  them. 
There  would  still  be  those  moments,  with  balls 
for  the  solar  system  and  a  candle  for  the  sun,  and 
the  blinds  down.  But  there  would  not  be  any- 
thing like  that  instant  when  all  the  eyes  round 
the  table  did  nothing  but  watch  the  movement 
of  a  shadow  on  a  ball  .  .  .  the  relief  afterwards, 
the  happiness  and  the  moment  of  intense  love 
in  the  room — never  to  be  forgotten,  all  of  them 
knowing  each  other,  all  their  differences  gone 
away,  even  the  clever  watchful  eyes  of  the 
cheating  little  Jewess,  real  and  unconscious  for  a 


BACKWATER  267 

moment.  Julia  would  be  watching  the  children 
as  much  as  the  shadow,  and  the  children  would 
never  quite  forget  Julia.  She  would  get  to  know 
a  great  deal  about  the  children,  but  there  would 
be  no  reverence  for  big  cold  outside  things.  She 
would  teach  them  to  be  kind.  "  Little  dorlings." 
She  thought  all  children  were  darlings  and  talked 
to  them  all  in  her  wheedling,  coaxing,  adoring 
way.  If  one  or  two  were  not,  it  was  the  fault 
of  the  way  they  were  treated,  something  in  the 
*  English  '  way  of  dealing  with  them.  Nearly 
all  the  elder  girls  she  disapproved  of,  they  were 
no  longer  children — they  were  English.  She  was 
full  of  contempt  and  indignant  laughter  for  them, 
and  of  pity  for  the  *  wee  things '  who  were 
growing  up.  Yet  she  got  on  with  them  all  and 
had  the  secret  of  managing  them  without  letting 
them  see  her  feelings. 

There  was  something  specially  bad  in  the  Eng- 
lish way  of  bringing  up  children.  Not  the 
'  education '  exactly,  but  something  else,  some- 
thing in  the  way  they  were  treated.  Something 
in  the  way  they  were  brought  up  made  English 
women  so  awful — with  their  smiles.  Julia  did 
not  smile  or  smirk.  She  laughed  a  great  deal, 
often  to  tears.     And  she  would  often  suddenly 


268  BACKWATER 

beam.  It  was  like  a  light  coming  from  under  her 
thick  white  skin.  Was  Julia  the  answer  to  the 
awfulness  of  Englishwomen  ?  If,  as  Julia  said, 
the  children  were  all  right  and  only  the  girls  and 
grown-ups  awful,  it  must  be  something  in  the 
way  the  children  were  treated. 

5 

Yet  Julia  was  not  impersonal. 

Miss  Deborah,  .  .  .  teaching  the  whole  school 
to  be  '  good '  in  the  Fairchild  way ;  with  her 
beautiful  quivering  nodding  black  head  held  high 
— blinking,  and  not  looking  at  the  girls  separately 
— in  a  grave  voice,  full  of  Scripture  history,  but 
broken  all  the  time,  quivering  with  laughter  and 
shoutings  which  she  never  uttered  .  .  .  hilarious, 
.  .  .  she  taught  a  system  of  things  she  had  been 
brought  up  in.  But  all  the  same,  she  rushed  along 
sweeping  the  girls  with  her  .  .  .  and  the  girls 
believed  her.  If  I  taught  her  system  I  should 
have  false  lips  and  the  girls  would  not  believe 
me.  If  ever  anyone  had  the  courage  to  tell  her 
of  any  dreadful  thing,  she  would  weep  it  all 
away  ;  and  the  person  would  begin  all  over  again 
certainly,  as  much  as  possible  in  the  Fairchild 
way  .  .  .  again  and  again  until  they  died.    Sup- 


BACKWATER  269 

posing  a  murderer  came  and  sat  down  in  the 
hall  ?  Supposing  Miss  Deborah  had  been  brought 
up  as  a  Thug — killing  people  from  behind  ?  .  .  . 

Miss  Jenny,  exasperatedly  trying  to  wake  all 
the  girls  up  to  the  importance  of  public  life, 
sitting  round  in  their  blouses  and  skirts,  half- 
amused  and  sometimes  trying  to  argue,  because 
the  tone  of  Miss  Jenny's  voice  made  them  sorry 
for  the  other  side.  Politics,  politics,  reading 
history  and  the  newspapers,  the  importance  of 
history  if  you  wanted  to  have  any  understanding 
of  your  own  times.  To  come  into  the  room  to 
take  the  class  after  Miss  Jenny  always  meant 
finding  her  stating  and  protesting  and  tapping 
the  end  of  her  nose,  and  the  air  hot  and  excited, 
and  the  girls  in  some  sort  of  state  of  excitement 
which  could  only  be  got  over  by  being  very  quiet 
and  pretending  not  to  notice  them  except  to  be 
very  surprised  if  there  were  any  disturbance. 

Miss  Haddie,  in  horror  of  their  badness,  teach- 
ing them  to  master  little  set  tasks  because  it  was 
shocking  to  be  an  idler  ;  loving  the  sinner  but 
hating  the  sin  much  more,  with  a  sort  of  horror 
like  a  girl,  a  horror  in  her  eyes  that  was  the  same 
as  the  horror  of  insects,  fearing  God  who  was  so 
close  in  the  room,  gloomily,  all  the  time — wanting 


270  BACKWATER 

to  teach  them  all  to  fawn  on  Christ.  Christ 
would  make  everything  all  right  if  you  made  up 
to  him.  "  Faint  not  nor  fear,  his  arms  are  near. 
He  faileth  not  and  thou  art  dear."    Awful .  .  . 

And  then  Julia,  making  the  children  love  her, 
herself,  as  a  person.  They  would  all  love  her  in 
time.  Even  Burra  after  her  first  grief  would 
fling  herself  upon  Julia  .  .  .  Gertie  would  not 
though,  ever.  Cold,  quiet  little  Gertie,  the 
doctor's  daughter.  She  would  make  no  response 
however  much  she  were  kissed  and  called  a  little 
darling.  Gertie  even  as  a  child  was  the  English 
thing  that  JuHa  disUked.  Julia,  with  all  her 
success  was  not  the  answer  to  the  problem  of  why 
Englishwomen  were  abominable.  She  left  out 
so  much.  "  JuHa,  you  know,  I  think  things  are 
more  important  than  people.  Much  more. 
People,  if  you  let  them  for  one  single  instant, 
grin  and  pounce  upon  you  and  try  to  make  you 
forget  things.  But  they're  there  all  the  time  and 
you  have  to  go  back  to  them,"  and  Julia  laughing 
suddenly  aloud,  "  Ah — ^you're  a  duck — a  tonic." 
And  everyone  was  a  little  afraid  of  Julia,  the 
children,  the  boarders  whom  she  managed  so 
high-handedly  with  her  laughter,  even  the  Femes. 


BACKWATER  271 

6 

Perhaps  Julia's  '  personal '  way  and  the  English 
'  personal '  way  were  somehow  both  wrong  and 
horrid  .  .  .  girls,  schools  were  horrid,  bound 
to  be  horrid,  sly,  mean,  somehow  tricky  and 
poisonous.  It  was  a  hopeless  problem.  The 
English  sentimental  way  was  wrong,  the  way  of 
EngHshwomen  with  children — it  made  them 
grow  up  with  those  treacherous  smiles. 

The  scientific  and  '  aesthetic  '  way,  the  way  of 
the  Putney  school — ah,  blessed  escape  !  .  .  .  But 
it  left  nearly  all  the  girls  untouched. 

Julia's  sentimental  way  was  better  than  the 
English  sentimental  way  ;  its  smiles  had  tears  and 
laughter  too,  they  were  not  so  hypocritical. 
But  it  was  wrong.  It  was  the  strongest  thing 
though  in  the  Wordsworth  House  school. 

7 
Julia  was  not  happy.  She  dreamed  fearful 
dreams.  .  .  .  Why  did  she  speak  of  them  as  if 
they  were  something  that  no  one  in  this  English 
world  into  which  she  had  come  would  under- 
stand ?  She  had  her  strange  nights  all  to  herself 
there  across  the  landing  ;    either  lying  awake  or 


272  BACKWATER 

sleeping  and  moaning  all  the  time.  The  girls 
in  her  room  slept  like  rocks  and  did  not  know 
that  she  moaned.  They  knew  she  had  night- 
mares and  sometimes  cried  out  and  woke  them. 
But  passing  the  open  door  late  at  night  one  could 
hear  her  moaning  softly  on  every  breath  with 
closed  Hps,  That  was  Julia,  her  life,  all  laid  bare, 
moaning.  .  .  .  She  knows  she  is  alive  and  that 
there  is  no  escape  from  being  alive.  But  it  has 
never  made  her  feel  breathless  with  joy.  She 
laughs  all  day,  at  everybody  and  everything,  and 
at  night  when  she  is  naked  and  alone  she  moans ; 
moan,  moan,  moan,  heart-broken  ;  wind  and  rain 
alone  in  the  dark  in  a  great  open  space. 

She  sometimes  hinted  at  things,  those  real  un- 
known things  that  were  her  own  life  unshared 
by  anybody  ;  in  a  low  soft  terrible  broken  voice, 
with  eyes  dilated  and  quivering  lips ;  quite  sud- 
denly, with  hardly  any  words.  And  she  would 
speak  passionately  about  the  sea,  how  she  hated 
it  and  could  not  look  at  it  or  listen  to  it ;  and  of 
woods,  the  horror  of  woods,  the  trees  and  the 
shadowiness,  making  her  crisp  her  hands — ah 
yes,  les  mains  crispees,  that  was  the  word ; 
and  she  had  laughed  when  it  was  explained 
to  her. 


BACKWATER  273 

It  was  not  that  she  had  troubles  at  home. 
Those  things  she  seemed  to  find  odd  and  amusing, 
like  a  story  of  the  life  of  some  other  person — 
poverty  and  one  of  her  sisters  '  very  peculiar,' 
another  engaged  to  a  scamp  and  another  going 
to  be  a  shop-assistant,  and  two  more,  '  doties ' 
very  young,  being  brought  up  in  the  country 
with  an  aunt.  Everything  that  happened  to 
people  and  all  the  things  people  did  seemed  to  her 
funny  and  amusing,  "  tickled  her  to  death." 
Harriett's  engagement  amused  her  really,  though 
she  pretended  to  be  immensely  interested  and 
asked  numbers  of  questions  in  a  rich  deep  awe- 
struck voice  .  .  .  blarney.  .  .  .  But  she  wanted  to 
hear  everything,  and  she  never  forgot  anything 
she  was  told.  And  she  had  been  splendid  about 
the  operation — really  anxious,  quite  conscious 
and  awake  across  the  landing  that  awful  night 
and  really  making  you  feel  she  was  glad  after- 
wards. "  Poor  Mrs.  Henderson — I  was  never  so 
glad  in  my  life  " — and  always  seeming  to  know 
her  without  having  her  explained.  She  was  real 
there,  and  so  strange  in  telling  the  Pernes  about 
it  and  making  it  all  easy. 


274  BACKWATER 

8 

Miriam  leaned  upon  Julia  more  and  more  as 
the  term  went  on,  hating  and  fearing  her  for  her 
secret  sorrow  and  wondering  and  wondering  why 
she  appeared  to  have  such  a  curious  admiration 
and  respect  for  herself.  She  could  understand 
her  adoration  for  the  Pernes ;  she  saw  them  as 
they  were  and  had  a  phrase  which  partly  ex- 
plained them,  *'  no  more  knowledge  of  the  world 
than  babes " — but  what  was  it  in  herself  that 
Julia  seemed  so  fiercely  and  shyly  to  admire  ? 

She  knew  she  could  not  let  Julia  know  how  she 
enjoyed  washing  her  hands,  in  several  soapings, 
in  the  cold  water,  before  dinner.  They  would 
go  their  favourite  midday  walk,  down  the  long 
avenue  in  the  park  through  the  little  windings  of 
the  shrubbery  and  into  the  chrysanthemum  show, 
strolling  about  in  the  large  green-house,  all  the 
girls  glad  of  the  escape  from  a  set  walk,  reading 
over  every  day  the  strange  names  on  the  little 
wooden  stakes,  jokes  and  gigglings  and  tiresome- 
nesses all  kept  within  bounds  by  the  happiness 
that  there  was,  inside  the  great  quiet  steamy 
glass-house,  in  the  strange  raw  bitter  scent  of  the 
great  flowers,  in  the  strange  huge  way  they  stood, 


BACKWATER  275 

and  with  all  their  differences  of  shape  and  colour 
staring  quietly  at  you,  all  in  the  same  way  with 
one  expression.  They  were  startling,  amongst 
their  grey  leaves ;  and  they  looked  startled  and 
held  their  heads  as  if  they  knew  they  were  beauti- 
ful. The  girls  always  hurried  to  get  to  the 
chrysanthemums  and  came  away  all  of  them 
walking  in  twos  relieved  and  happy  back  through 
the  cold  park  to  dinner.  But  Julia,  who  loved 
the  flowers,  though  she  made  fun  of  their  names  in 
certain  moods  and  dropped  them  sotto  voce  into 
the  general  conversation  at  the  dinner-table 
would  have,  Miriam  felt  sure,  scorned  her  own 
feeling  of  satisfaction  in  the  great  hand-washing 
and  the  good  dinner.  And  she  detested  pease 
pudding  with  the  meat,  and  boiled  suet  pudding 
with  treacle. 

9 
She  ate  scarcely  anything  herself,  keeping  her 
attention  free  and  always  seeming  to  be  waiting 
for  someone  to  say  something  that  was  never  said. 
Her  broad-shouldered,  curiously  buoyant,  heavy, 
lounging,  ill-clad  form,  her  thick  white  skin,  her 
eyes  like  a  grey-blue  sea,  her  dark  masses  of  fine 
hair  had  long  been  for  Miriam  the  deepest  nook 
in   the  meal-time  gatherings — she   rested  there 


276  BACKWATER 

unafraid  of  anything  the  boarders  might  say  or  do. 
She  would  never  be  implicated.  Julia  would  take 
care  of  that,  heading  everything  off  and  melting 
up  the  difficulties  into  some  absurdity  that  would 
set  all  the  Pernes  talking.  Julia  lounged  easily 
there,  controlling  the  atmosphere  of  the  table. 
And  the  Pernes  knew  it  unconsciously,  they  must 
know  it ;  any  English  person  would  know  it 
.  .  .  though  they  talked  about  her  untidiness 
and  lack  of  purpose  and  application.  Julia  was  a 
deep,  deep  nook,  full  of  thorns. 

10 

JuHa  had  spoiled  the  news  of  Sarah's  engage- 
ment to  Bennett  Brodie.  It  had  been  such  a 
wonderful  moment.  The  thick  envelope  coming 
at  midday  in  Bennett's  hand-writing — such  a 
surprise — asking  Miss  Perne's  permission  to  read 
it  at  the  dinner-table — reading  the  startling 
sentences  in  the  firm  curved  hand — *  assert  my 
privilege  as  your  prospective  brother-in-law  by 
announcing  that  I'm  on  the  track  of  a  job  that  I 
think  will  suit  you  down  to  the  ground,'  the 
curious  splash,  gravy  on  the  cloth  as  somebody 
put  the  great  dish  on  the  table,  far-away  vexa- 
tion and  funny  familiar  far-away  discomfort  all 


BACKWATER  277 

round  the  table,  *  no  more  of  this  until  I've  got 
full  particulars  on  the  tapis  ;  but  it  may,  oh 
Grecian  Mariamne,  not  be  without  interest  to 
you  to  hear  that  that  sister  of  yours  does  not 
appear  to  be  altogether  averse  to  taking  over  the 
management  of  the  new  house  and  the  new 
practice  and  the  new  practitioner,  and  that  the 
new  practitioner  is  hereby  made  anew  in  a  sense 
that  is  more  of  an  amazement  to  him  than  it 
doutbless  will  be  to  your  intuitive  personality. 
That  life  and  such  happiness  in  store  for  him  is 
not  the  least  of  the  many  surprises  that  have 
come  his  way.  He  can  only  hope  to  prove  not 
unworthy  ;  and  so  a  hearty  au  revoir  from  yours 
affectionately.'  .  .  .  Then  Bennett  would  always 
be  there  amongst  the  home  things  .  .  .  with  his 
strange  way  of  putting  things ;  he  would  give 
advice  and  make  suggestions  .  .  .  and  Sarah's 
letter  ...  a  glance  at  it  showing  short  sentences, 
things  spoken  in  a  low  awe-struck  voice.  .  .  . 
'  We  had  been  to  an  entertainment  together.  .  .  . 
Coming  home  along  the  avenue.  I  was  so  sur- 
prised. He  was  so  quiet  and  serious  and  humble.' 
...  all  the  practical  things  gone  away  in  a  mo- 
ment, leaving  only  a  sound  of  deep  music,  .  .  . 
mornings   and  evenings.     Sarah   alone   now,   at 


278  BACKWATER 

last,  a  person,  with  mornings  and  evenings  and 
her  own  reaHty  in  everything.  No  one  could 
touch  her  or  interfere  any  more.  She  was  stand- 
ing aside,  herself.  She  would  always  be  Sarah, 
someone  called  Sarah.  She  need  never  worry 
any  more,  but  go  on  doing  things.  .  .  .  And 
then  looking  up  and  finding  all  the  table  eagerly 
watching  and  saying  suddenly  to  Miss  Perne 
*  another  of  my  sisters  is  engaged  '  and  every- 
body, even  Trixie  and  Beadie,  excited  and  inter- 
ested. 

II 

The  news,  the  great  great  news,  wonderful 
Sarah  away  somewhere  in  the  background  with 
her  miracle — telling  it  out  to  the  table  of  women 
was  a  sort  of  public  announcement  that  life  was 
moving  out  on  to  wider  levels.  They  all  knew  it, 
pinned  there ;  and  how  dear  and  glad  they  were, 
for  a  moment,  making  it  real,  acknowledging  by 
their  looks  how  wonderful  it  was.  Sarah,  floating 
above  them  all,  caught  up  out  of  the  darkness  of 
everyday  life.  .  .  .  And  then  Julia's  eyes — veiled 
for  a  moment  while  she  politely  stirred  and 
curved  her  lips  to  a  smile — cutting  through  it 
all,  seeming  to  say  that  nothing  was  really  touched 
or  changed.     But  when  the  table  had  turned  to 


BACKWATER  279 

jealousy  and  resentment  and  it  was  time  to  pretend 
to  hide  the  shaft  of  light  and  cease  to  listen  to 
the  music,  Julia,  cool  and  steady,  covered  every- 
thing up  and  made  conversation. 

12 

And  the  thought  of  Julia  was  always  a  dis- 
turbance in  going  to  tea  with  the  Brooms.  Grace 
Broom  was  the  only  girl  in  thfe  school  for  whom 
she  had  an  active  aversion.  She  put  one  or  two 
questions  about  them,  *  You  really  like  going 
there  ?  '  '  You'll  go  on  seeing  them  after  you 
leave  ?  *  and  concluded  carelessly  '  that's  a 
mystery  to  me- ' 

Sitting  at  tea  shut  in  in  the  Brooms'  little 
dining-room  with  the  blinds  down  and  the  dark 
red  rep  curtains  drawn  and  the  gas-light  and 
brilliant  fire-light  shining  on  the  brilliantly 
polished  davenport  in  the  window-space  and  the 
thick  bevelled  glass  of  the  Satsuma-laden  mahogany 
sideboard,  the  dim  cracked  oil-painting  of  Shakes- 
peare above  the  mantel-shelf,  the  dark  old  land- 
scapes round  the  little  walls,  the  new  picture  of 
Queen  Victoria  leaning  on  a  stick  and  supported 
by  Hindu  servants,  receiving  a  minister,  the  solid 
silver  tea-service,  the  fine  heavily  edged  linen 


28o  BACKWATER 

table-cover,  the  gleaming,  various,  delicately- 
filled  dishes,  the  great  bowl  of  flowers,  the  heavy, 
carven,  unmoved,  age-long  dreaming  faces  of 
the  three  women  with  their  living  interested  eyes, 
she  would  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  a  deep,  calm 
undisturbing  silence  become  aware  of  Julia. 
Julia  would  not  be  impressed  by  the  surroundings, 
the  strange  silent  deeps  of  the  room.  She  would 
discover  only  that  she  was  with  people  who 
revered  "  our  Queen  "  and  despised  "  the  working 
classes."  It  would  be  no  satisfaction  to  her  to 
sit  drinking  from  very  exquisite  old  china,  cup 
after  cup  of  delicious  very  hot  tea,  laughing  to 
tears  over  the  story  of  the  curate  who  knelt  in- 
securely on  a  high  kneeling  stool  at  evening 
service  in  a  country  church  and  crashing  suddenly 
down  in  the  middle  of  a  long  prayer  went  on 
quietly  intoning  from  the  floor,  or  the  madeira 
cake  that  leapt  from  the  cake-dish  on  an  at-home 
day  and  rolled  under  the  sofa.  She  would  laugh, 
but  she  would  look  from  face  to  face,  privately, 
and  wonder.  She  would  not  really  like  the  three 
rather  dignified  seated  forms  with  the  brilliant, 
tear-filled  eyes,  sitting  on  over  tea,  telling  anec- 
dotes, and  tales  of  long  strange  illnesses  suffered  by 
strange  hidden  people  in  quiet  houses,  weddings. 


BACKWATER  281 

deaths,  the  stories  of  famiUes  separated  for  life 
by  quarrels  over  money,  stories  of  far-off  holidays 
in  the  country  ;  strange  sloping  rooms  and  farm- 
house adventures ;  the  cow  that  walked  into  the 
bank  in  a  little  country  town.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Philps' 
first  vision,  as  a  bride,  of  the  English  Lakes,  the 
tone  of  her  voice  as  she  talked  about  all  these 
things. 

The  getting  together  and  sitting  about  and 
laughing  in  the  little  room  would  never  be  to  her 
like  being  in  a  world  that  was  independent  of  all 
the  other  worlds.  She  would  not  want  to  go 
again  and  again  and  sit,  just  the  four  women,  at 
tea,  talking.  The  silent,  beautifully  kept,  ex- 
perienced old  furniture  all  over  the  house  would 
not  fill  her  with  fear  and  delight  and  strength. 
It  would  be  no  satisfaction  to  her  to  put  on  her 
things  in  front  of  the  huge  plate  glass  of  the 
enormous  double- fronted  wardrobe  in  the  spare- 
room  with  its  old  Bruges  ware  and  its  faded 
photographs  of  the  interiors  of  unknown  churches, 
rows  and  rows  of  seats  and  a  faded  blur  where 
the  altar  was,  thorn-crowned  heads  and  bold 
scroUy  texts  embroidered  in  crimson  and  gold 
silken  mounted  and  oak-framed.  And  when  she 
went  home  alone  along  the  quiet,  dark,  narrow, 


282  BACKWATER 

tree-filled  little  roadways  she  would  not  feel  gay 
and  strong  and  full  of  personality. 

13 

On  prize-giving  day,  Miriam's  last  day,  Julia 
seemed  to  disappear.  For  the  first  time  since 
she  had  come  to  the  school  it  was  as  if  she  were 
not  there.  She  was  neither  talking  nor  watching 
nor  steering  anything  at  all.  Again  and  again 
during  the  ceremonies  Miriam  looked  at  her 
sitting  or  moving  about,  pale  and  plain  and 
shabby,  one  of  the  crowd  of  girls. 

The  curious  power  of  the  collected  girls,  their 
steady  profiles,  their  movements,  their  uncon- 
cerned security  rose  and  flooded  round  Miriam 
as  it  had  done  when  she  first  came  to  the  school. 
But  she  no  longer  feared  it.  It  was  going  on, 
harsh  and  unconscious  and  determined,  next 
term.  She  was  glad  of  it ;  the  certainty  thrilled 
her  ;  she  wanted  to  convey  some  of  her  gladness 
to  Julia,  but  could  not  catch  her  eye. 

Her  gladness  carried  her  through  the  most 
tedious  part  of  the  day's  performances,  the  sitting 
in  a  listening  concourse,  doors  open,  in  the  school- 
room, while  some  ten  of  the  girls  went  one  by 
one  with  stricken  faces  into  the  little  drawing- 


BACKWATER  283 

room  and  played  the  piece  they  had  learned  during 
the  term.  Their  shame  and  confusion,  the  anger 
and  desperation  of  their  efforts,  the  comments 
of  the  Hsteners  and  their  violent  ironic  applause 
roused  her  to  an  intensity  of  sympathy.  How 
they  despised  the  shame- faced  tinkling  ;  how  they 
admired  the  martyrs. 

Their  strong  indifference  seemed  to  centre  in 
the  cold  pale  scornful  face  of  Jessie  Wheeler, 
sitting  squarely  there  with  defiant  eyes,  waiting 
for  the  future  ;  the  little  troop  of  children  she 
dreamed  of. 

These  North  London  girls  would  be  scornful 
mocking  fiancees.  They  would  be  adored  by 
their  husbands.  Secretly  they  would  forget 
their  husbands  in  their  houses  and  children  and 
friends. 

Julia  was  the  last  player.  She  sidled  swiftly 
out  of  the  room  ;  even  her  habitual  easy  halting 
lounge  seemed  to  have  deserted  her ;  and  almost 
once,  slow  and  tragic  and  resignedly  weeping 
came  the  opening  notes  of  Chopin's  Funeral 
March.  Sitting  in  the  front  row  of  the  little 
batch  of  children  from  the  lower  school  who 
faced  the  room  from  the  window  bay,  Miriam 


284  BACKWATER 

saw,  in  fancy,  Julia's  face  as  she  sat  at  the  drawing- 
room  piano — the  face  she  had  when  she  talked  of 
the  woods  and  the  sea.  The  whole  of  the  long 
march,  including  the  major  passage,  was  the  voice 
of  Julia's  strange  desolation.  She  played  pain- 
fully, very  slowly  and  carefully,  with  tender 
respectful  attention,  almost  without  emphasis. 
She  was  not  in  the  least  panic-stricken  ;  anyone 
could  feel  that ;  but  she  had  none  of  the  musical 
assurance  that  would  have  filled  the  girls  with 
uneasy  admiration  and  disgust.  They  were 
pleased  and  amused.  And  far  away,  Julia  was 
alone  with  life  and  death.  She  made  two  worlds 
plain,  the  scornful  world  of  the  girls  and  her  own 
shadow-filled  life. 

Miriam  longed  for  the  performance  to  be  at  an 
end  so  that  the  girls  might  reassert  themselves. 

15 

An  important  stirring  was  going  on  at  the  little 
table  where  Miss  Cramp  sat  with  the  Pernes ; 
only  their  heads  and  shoulders  showing  above  the 
piles  of  prize-books.  ,  Miss  Perne  stood  up  and 
faced  the  room  smiling  and  gently  muttering. 
Presently  her  voice  grew  clear  and  she  was  making 
little  statements  and  pronouncing  names,  clearly 


BACKWATER  285 

and  with  gay  tender  emphasis,  the  names  of  tall 
bold  girls  in  the  first  class.  One  by  one  they 
struggled  to  the  table  and  stood  gentle  and  dis- 
turbed with  flushed  enlightened  faces.  Not  a 
single  girl  could  stand  unconcerned  before  Miss 
Perne.  Even  Polly  Allen's  brow  was  shorn  of 
its  boldness. 

The  girls  knew.  They  would  remember  some- 
thing of  what  the  Pernes  had  tried  to  give  them. 

The  room  was  unbearably  stuffy.  The  prize- 
giving  was  at  an  end.  Miriam's  own  children 
had  struggled  to  the  table  and  come  back  to  her 
for  the  last  time. 

Miss  Perne  was  making  a  little  speech  .  .  . 
about  Miss  Henderson's  forthcoming  departure. 
Why  did  people  do  these  formal  things  ?  She 
would  be  expected  to  make  some  response.  For 
a  moment  she  had  the  impulse  to  get  up  and  rush 
away  through  the  hall,  get  upstairs  and  pack  and 
send  for  a  four-wheeler.  But  from  behind  came 
hands  dragging  at  a  fold  of  her  dress  and  the 
sound  of  Burra's  hard  sobbing.  She  felt  the  child's 
head  bowed  against  her  hip.  A  child  at  her  side 
twisted  its  hands  together  and  sat  with  its  head 
held  high,  drawing  sharp  breaths.  Miss  Perne's 
voice  went  on.    She  was  holding  up  an  umbrella, 


286  BACKWATER 

a  terrible,  expensive,  silver-mounted  one.  The 
girls  had  subscribed. 

Miriam  sat  with  beating  heart  waiting  for  Miss 
Perne's  voice  to  cease,  pressing  back  towards  the 
support  of  Burra  and  other  little  outstretched 
clutchings  and  the  general  snuffling  of  her  class, 
grappling  with  the  amazement  of  hearing  from 
various  quarters  of  the  room  violent  and  repeated 
nose-blowings,  and  away  near  the  door  in  the 
voice  of  a  girl  she  had  hardly  spoken  to  a  deep 
heavy  contralto  sobbing. 

Presently  she  was  on  her  feet  with  the  tightly- 
rolled  silken  twist  of  the  umbrella  heavy  in  her 
hands.  Her  stiff  lips  murmured  incoherent 
thanks  in  a  strange  thin  voice — Harriett's  voice 
with  the  life  gone  from  it. 


Note. — A  further  instalment  of  this  book  is  in 
preparation. 


PRINTED    IK    GREAT    BRITAIN    BY 
WM.    BRENDON    AND    SON,   LTD.,    PLYMOUTH 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


\%^4'\ 


WAX2  21957 
of  CO  M^*- 

UJ^uRL   MAY3  0i96^ 


.  MAY  3  1  igdf 

iMT  II  )9|f  > 

AUG  2      1935 
NOV  10  19^2 


NOV  \  9 

MAY  7  -  1943 

MAY  3i  1^'^.5 
,JAN  ^  i  1947 

Form  L-9-10»?-5,'28 


MftV  i7'i96a 


Kapri 


9MI 


i  REGIONAL  UBRARYFAClinY 


A    000  555  969    5 


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